by Andrew M. Harbach14 Jul 2014
A backstreet ballad for and undercover lover, pumped internally to the tunes by Cliffs of Dover. Someone for whom slant rhymes will never be enough, and odes to people we never truly know, become our internal ringtones. What to which grabs our attention? What grips the concerns of our circadian apprehension: tell them simply not to sole-fully worry, but to worry about the likes of our souls. Today's time is kept in a pocket, today's moments are clocked by the necessary inspection of a vibration that we complain about when it doesn't do our job, as we take time from our own duties. And the longevity only regards us when we no longer have time to put it off.