It is an erstwhile Engineer,
And he stops one of three,
‘By your beardless chin and glittering eye,
Why are you stopping me?

The party’s on, the doors are wide
The dance floor calls to me.
The beer’s on tab, the food’s not bad:
I’ve got to go, you see!’

He holds him back with skinny hand,
‘I built a site!’ said he.
‘Shove off! Unhand me, crazy fool’
And drop his hand does he.

And yet there’s something in his eye,
Some troubling force of will
Wide eyed with wonder like a child
The party-goer stood still.

He pulls his coat against the cold:
What could he do but hear?
And on he spoke, his tale he told,
The bright-eyed Engineer.

‘You’ve heard I s’pose, The Prolix Post,
A webzine that I write,
Ten issues writ, Ten issues shipped,
Ten issues saw daylight.’

At this he spoke, the party-goer,
Prospective attendee,
‘I Google-searched, upon those words,
No mention could I see’

‘Not so, Not so, I write the Post,
And people read it too—
We started with but forty-four
Eighty will read Vol. 2’

By now the party roared with life,
Without its party-guest,
The bass was dropped; the place went off,
And rounded o’er the crest.

The missing-guest he beat his chest,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And on he spoke, his tale he told,
The bright-eyed Engineer.

With Issue 10, our last was she,
Four thousand plus words strong:
So large when writ, I had to split,
Two parts were sent along.

And though two parts were of one whole,
Two separate rolls of one long scroll,
I ran the stats, I checked the poll,
And found how they were spread.
Fifty and eight, the first would fate,
Fifty and three, both read.

And then there came the silent dark,
And it grew deathly still:
And eyes espied, no Post came by,
Their inbox was unfilled.

No lengthy words of little use
Were whispered under breath,
Nor were songs heard, as yet obscure:
The readers were bereft.

They checked in trash bins, and in spam,
No missive was inbound:
How long unchecked, this ‘hiatus’?
Had funding run aground?’

‘Curse you then bright-eyed Engineer
I see where this tale goes.
Why didn’t you write, to aid their plight.
You stopped the Prolix Post!’

The Sun now rose by later morn,
And staved off early night,
The days grew warmer, warmer still,
And still I did not write.

And lo I read more every day
And lo I sketched out plans
And though I tried to keep the faith
On little did I stand.

For I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work me woe:
As you supposed, I stopped the Post
That made the words to flow.
You fool! said they, the Post to stay,
That made the words to flow!

‘Fear not,’ I said, ‘You see instead,
I’ll build a site so fair.’
And that made sense, And from then hence,
I worked on such with care,
’Twas right, said they, the Post to stay.
To bring a site to bear.

Init the git, polish and spit,
Finish the site quickly!
But deep I went, and months I spent,
Inside that silent sea.

Then stopped the words, I made no sound,
’Twas sad as sad could be;
And could I speak after those weeks
Within that silent sea?

I read about Typography,
A few weeks that would take,
I learned to limit length of line,
With eye fatigue at stake.

Day after day, day after day,
I fixed designs I’d chosen,
And idle hands repainted ships,
And then repainted oceans.

Reading and coding every day,
To write I built the site;
Reading and coding every day,
And yet I did not write.

Therein we see the point of rot,
And insecurity,
For doubts that creep on unseen legs
Had set their sights on me.

And what to say when old and young,
Seek answers with their looks,
To justify a selfish life
Coding and reading books.

On and on … and on he spoke, of
Iterative design,
The Guest his eyes began to glaze,
All through this weary time,
While drifting off, so he beheld
A sound so sweet, sublime.

At first he heard the swell of synth,
The throb of bass attacks,
Together they would phaser through
Now joined by roaring sax.

That kick, that bass, that 80’s riff,
It pulsed and drove through clear:
And yielding to insistent beat,
Both men sat up to hear.

The Guest, on phone, he clicked record,
The tune he knew it not,
It spun its wheel, and waveform sent,
To servers far away it went
And brought what he had sought.

It was The Midnight from LA,
The neon cursive read,
An album called Endless Summer,
Vampires, the song, it said.

Their ethos summed in Japanese
Mono no aw-a-re,
Aware of Life's impermanence:
That nothing’s here to stay,
A wistful grasp as time slips past
As all things must decay.

The group was formed by Tyler Lyle,
Songwriter from Deep South,
Along with Denmark’s Tim McEwan
To round the duo out.

And lo from high the sax sang true,
And both men felt a yearning,
Though they were barely newborns as the
Eighth decade was turning.

And yet somehow those nascent minds,
Had felt that kindred call,
Of neon lights and rain swept streets,
Of warming synth and driving beats,
And it could still enthral.

Within the bar, the DJ smiled,
Her crowd, it bobbed and swayed,
Her floor as packed as it could be
A moment shared by all as she
Did cue the next track played.

The Guest did sigh for he now knew
He would not greet his host,
More verse, more words would still ensue
About the Prolix Post.

‘So as I hear it,’ said the Guest.
‘You’ve gone and built a site
Promoted all your content on
Your social media, right?

You post on Twitter, often, surely,
Before it’s death, did Vine?
You Instagram the food you eat,
Before your livestream time.’

‘Alone, alone, I’m all alone,
Alone on the wide web, see—
No doting, tweeting, following mass,
To validate life for me.’

‘Haha,’ the nervous Guest did laugh
‘I nearly missed your jest—
Facebook, Tumblr are your purview,
And bolstered by Pinterest.’

‘I look upon the rotting web,
And draw my eyes away;
Why do we value clicks and likes,
More than what people say.

And what, of worth will fill our lives,
Once we have clicked the link?
We take each hit of dopamine,
And never stop to think.

One day no warmth will come from breath,
No pulse will pump in chest,
For the heart and the mind, and the mind the heart,
Will not think, nor feel, nor ache, nor start
All will remain at rest.’

At which point, then, when all is still,
When we’re beyond the veil:
Will hashtag, clicks, text, tweet and pics,
Suffice to tell our tale?

See all I seek is legacy
And that, however small,
Some part of me should somehow live
When the heart and the mind do fall,
Some tiny part should outlast me
Till then death cannot call.’

At this the Guest was quiet and still,
The speaker scratched his head,
You run the risk when talking, always,
That too much is said.

At length with odd concurrence did
Both men apologise;
‘I meant no harm’, ‘No, no good sir,
Those simply are the things I fear,
I'll take it as advice.’

‘The publication model’s changed’
Said Guest to Engineer,
‘Organic growth will not suffice,
You’re going to need a lot more eyes,
If this is your career.’

He knew the Guest had spoken true;
And though was loth to say,
Encaged within, the heart that beat,
Like lead did sink that day.

It was the Engineer who now,
Did sit both quiet and still,
How swiftly swept by doubt and fear,
By consternation most sincere,
Held so by icy chill.

‘What gives me pause,’ he said softly,
‘Is questioning the art,
How can you sound your horn if you—
Still do not know your part?

I struggle to find value in—
The work that I have done,
For what is writ by night rarely
Does shine by light of sun.

A hundred failures, likely more
Before one makes it through,
But how to fail so ceaselessly
And to the path stay true
A closet full of skeletons,
As yet to see value.

Alas my friend, I’m sorry, for—
I merely wished to say,
Despite the doubt, I am still proud,
The Post restarts today.

The Guest he turned to take his leave
The Engineer was gone,
And stunned by circumstance he sat
Till sky was kissed by dawn.

The air was fresh, the Earth was still,
The birds rejoiced in song,
Sadder wiser, every day,
Life, as they say, goes on.

It gives me pause, this issue writ
A shorter yet to write,
You know they say twice shy, once bit,
And I am quite contrite.

You see despite a lesser count,
The time I took it rose,
More drafts, more research, paramount,
If I'm to improve prose.

I hope you all enjoy the site,
This Post and those to be,
Reply with feedback if you like,
From now, it's fortnightly.

You're welcome,

Nikhil
Parnassian Postmaster General