…listening to Incubus at the bottom of the ocean

The old 1998 internet dial tone plays

on the Incubus track I’m

listening to and I realise

Incubus probably feel similarly

nostalgic about that sound.

I listened to them a lot in the days

when I’d also suffered that chug and rushing

and those beeping noises, hearing

being the sense that is most evocative

of memory, which I have written about before

some night, some time in the assumably recent

though perceptibly secluded past. Or was it smell?

I don’t know. It’s not important. Time is important,

the way it just goes, minutes, hours.

Most days seem this way, as if the daily naps

I’ve been having are years long.

Maybe that’s why I feel so old, why the weeks

are so fast, so far removed from each other,

why I can’t seem to focus on anything anymore,

biologically alerted to what needs to be done

on some surface level, far above the depths in

which I found Incubus and in which I wish

to remain, surrounded by bubbles and blue

whales, cephalopods and luminous creatures,

the unpredictable, the wise, the unexplainable

and the vivid: it’s good here, very good.

There’s always music like Incubus, and the

internet is fictitious, just a legend the blue whales

hum about sometimes, as the cephalopods,

luminous creatures and I quietly shudder.

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