(harpsichord and strings, a graceful courtly air)Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely, and more temperate, and more kind —than the seventeen people in this thread who will not go away,who type, and type, and never make their mindRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,and my phone hath buzzed four hundred times today...sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines...and someone just said hahaha to a message from last May...(beat drops — frantic drill, autotuned rap)Shall I compare thee to a group chat at 3amthou art more loud, more relentless, and there's no escaping themfour hundred unread, and somebody added my momthe typing dots are dancing and they never, ever calmOne person sent a paragraph, one sent a thumbs up aloneone started a poll about a brunch that's never gonna get doneI muted it, it knew, it pulled me right back inleft on read by one person, but harassed by everyone, the sinShall I compare thee to a group chat at 3amthou art more loud, more relentless, and there's no escaping themfour hundred unread, and somebody added my momthe typing dots are dancing and they never, ever calmSo long as phones can buzz, or eyes can read,so long lives this thread, and this gives life to my dread(harpsichord returns, delicate)...someone is typing... someone is always typing...
