demanding our attention,
and speaking in tongues
of their own annihilation,
the static and fuzz
of promiscuous flurries
is sometimes
enough to provoke
our anxiety. But
such weaselly fuzz
ought not get
our hackles up,
as it's nothing
but promotional buzz
for the real stuff.
Once it lands,
it expires like
a rumor that's spurious;
like a playlist
on shuffle, it is not
truly random—
and randomness
is the only denouement
that should worry us.