It sounds like mining,

sounds like growling heavy tools

I'm coughing my lungs out

at the bottom of January's air pressure

A turboprop passes along its doppler effect,

straight-lined

in its lofty darkness on high;

fine-clothed passengers orderly dispersed

in quadruple rows

Everything exists in a relentlessly whining manner,

though nothing is as endless as it seems

There is a curvature waiting

for the long distance traveller

I'm reaching for my dick,

fullfilling my obligation