Crisp Counterpoint.

I crisp at the juxtaposition, the sile banality of it.
How fare you in this ill wind my guest,
these times of ardour and feigned despair
when our souls drag behind us grasping for peace
but are cast aside like Anne Altman's summer wardrobe.

Ah, the music shall free us, and lease our minds to the clouds soaring above the melee, but, but for time of little measure.

Render the memory of it.
Knead it with sweaty palms, taste it.

For when we clamber back into this electro-forsaken reality,
and cry out at the utter futility of the thousand silicon arrows
that descend upon us.

We are lost.

On this battlefield we call work, We are all lost.