This is the story of a deafening world

loud though it may be, it is still the

quaint, abhorrent, poignant, kind of world

where violins scream in dazzled agony

like an incendiary who has just zincked

the sudden photograph that appeared out of nowhere.

It is because of this that the Atlantic

must be an obedient contradiction of

Itself, through the story it must tell, it has to

be inspired. Because how else can

a story be wrote in this loudness

where the suburbanites sleep in this, kind crowd.