What depth does the foundation
of my bastion of atoms
crack at?

The adversary,
that nefarious nature
laughing madly throughout the ages,
knows the cracks by heart
I'm told.

He could speak of the stones ground
to dust under the glacier of my soul
for days without repeating himself.

Then he has to know I'm a sucker for romance.

I hear a low hum constantly.

Imagine diamonds falling
in slow motion,
facets catching light,
soundtracked by
Whiter Shade of Pale.

I've long since mastered
the subtle art of getting sidetracked.

I'm also told younger generations
can hear electricity or something.
Still doesn't account for the hum
because the fridge sounds
like talk radio.