When sunlight starts 

to taste sour, I know it 

has expired. Drum beats 

fade from the lofi radio 

and I don’t mind if it’s 

not “chill.” Debussy’s 

tears land on his scores, 

dyeing them blue with 

the oceanic salts. Vi- 

brating shades hum 

on isolated islands — 

an uncountable rhythm, 

no melodies. Macondo’s 

wind rises from the ash, 

embracing the leftover sun- 

set. The leftover sunset 

embraces Macondo’s ash 

rising in the wind — an 

uncountable rhythm, no 

melodies. Isolated islands 

hum with vibrating shades 

as Debussy’s scores land on 

the oceanic salts, dyeing their 

tears blue. Drum beats don’t 

mind me & the lofi radio fades 

in a chill. When sunlight 

starts to taste sour, I know I 

might have expired, too.