As a pin drops, the ping I hear goes right through me.
It nestles back within the far moog regions,
laughing like an Irishman's sobriety.
Pick the pin up off the floor.
A reflection from the sun pounces off the metal, into my thoughts.
Boiler room for the elements of conundrum.
Thought left to remain, well I don't believe I could 
accurately call it thought.
Sure as thought though, thoughts forward, and my hands
remember the repetition they've endured.

Taste my thoughts.
I hold the nectar above your beautiful cells and eyes and hells.