HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Introduced to Prufrock in HS, the particular cymatics of that frequency got ossified into my scafolding early on, becoming something comforting and resonant in my assumption of the way things should be, what poetry should feel like. But then not only, as adjacent areas reflect Ibn ‘Arabi, org-mode, and various musique concrete. Interpenetrating deliquescent currencies within my particular language game.