I am feeling very MP3 currently,
whereas I wish to feel all FLAC.
Though something is pressed inside
my brain, some empty hole that wants
to be filled, but the sign explaining
the approved contents is written
in some other kind of script.

Not hieroglyphics, because I could
possibly figure it out through
guesswork, but something like cuneiform
that is to be as close to English
as a brick is to an office building,
so I am stuck on the starting blocks,
waiting for that gunshot
to shout at me ‘SPRINT!’

I am wavering at my seat, though I
am comfortable, and there are three
days of a more chilled time,
I am worried. There is something
behind me, all attempts to gaze
in the direction blocked by
neck or shoulder, but I feel it
and I know it, and I am trying
to grasp it but my fingers are too
oily.

What is it? What is that voice,
so muffled, so faraway, telling me
what I need to hear so that this
oddity may clear from my wondering,
so I may stand up tall and embrace
the times that win? What on earth,
is stuck to my periphery, my
blind spot so full?