The Press.

Such a pretty thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Or the wisdom to be mad.

Or the slightly bloody pretensions of sacrificial relief, half-tired half-glad.

While wars go on for miles around, why can't we hear that awful sound?

Headphones. Wear them.

Sphere is what cocoons you and what continuously binds them.

Your deafness.

This is not a call for help.

Or a wake up worthy of two seconds yelp.

This is an elegy.

An adulation.

Oh, such a beautiful thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Instead of having to feel sad for no reason.

My prison.