...like when you hear a beat in the club and you think it's your song queued up but it's just some other song you don't like.
Oh, you silly thing, you’ve really gone and done it now. When I am confronted with the first edge of my own hitherto unsuspected culpability in yet another personal disaster, in those seconds of waking realisation, and even before I have ‘adjusted to’, never-mind metabolised, what is going on, and as I am stumbling beneath the burden of that moment of about to as it is expressed in the American prosaism ‘the shit is about to hit the fan’ (more ambiguously processed by Farrokhzad ‘In my night, so brief, alas / The wind is about to meet the leaves.’), when I am thus confronted, and in the midst of my scrambling through affective scree, playing catch up by which I might align my affect with the ubiquitous modern state of studied nonchalance, and still long before I may recompose myself behind that off-the-peg mien of habituated disdain (‘I'm dead behind these eyes. I'm dead, just like the whole inert, shoddy lot out there. It doesn't matter because I don't feel a thing, and neither do they.’), it is then that this paradigmatic understatement will thread itself into my wakening state - oh you silly thing, you’ve really gone and done it now.