There is only the hum of being alive. Nothing affects this even handedness. Certainly not how long you are allowed to sing. Eternity is a grooved spinning record, and we go round and round, forever guessing if we are a song or simply the melody.
Poetry is the last thing That would occur to letters that were mulling around hunting for something to say. Words would testify that gathering to rhyme is only for holidays. Good writers are uncomfortable leaving only a verse, one that is unsure of where it’s period might fit in. But I prefer this short shit, cause I mostly don’t like the reader anyway.