Anodyne, sat situated between the bookcase and the
television, chirping about the day that was - remote
in hand - a friend knew a person experiencing comedic
circumstance, much humour. Sat adroit between the
two titans of silent adventure or monotonous nostalgia,
fiddling the button-topped log between breaks in the
story and pauses for breath, a hush of recollection, a
burst of some loud gargantuan scuffled laughter
thunderstorm monsterstorm apocalypse. Remote in
hand, flick-flocking across the vast carnivorous horizon
and still slopping tidbits of rehashed codswallop
like flecks of spittle on the living room walls, paint
peeling off in sun-burn blocks, brown stains appear on
the faux-beige carpet, virulent moths ball the lame
hanging ducks that are the second-hand curtains -
something stirs and a single terse word is thrown
in between the apocryphal maelstrom. "Please,"
it stunts, almost belly-up from the first plosive,
"pass me the remote."
I don't feel like the chosen form (a monolithic block of text) does the language any favors, and that's unfortunate, because your language is always built from the most well-chosen words for the purpose, and this piece rewards reading and rereading and digesting and rehashing.

But it looks like an uninviting wall telling the reader to go away before they give it even a second glance.

Nothing to see here. Move along.