It could be the warning, this shift in temperature, shift weight from foot to foot, if discerning the
signs were enough anymore, if twopenny oracles didn’t bank the streets of London. The more songs,
the fewer lyrics. The heat’s given rise to forest fires on the West Coast, dried crops in the South,
and here and there a coin revolves between nimble fingers, IN GOD WE TRUST in relief. Relief is
desperate, but for some an air-conditioned cinema will suffice. Soon a watch glance, soon come the
chorus of later, it’s so much later than we thought.