Yeah, the whir of a vending machine is like a low drum in a crowded street, it keeps time when everything else is a blur. I lean against the metal, let the hiss seep into my ribs, and suddenly a line pops into my head, a quiet verse that cuts through the noise. The world is chaotic, but that steady hum is my metronome, my secret backstage pass to a melody that keeps the whole thing from falling apart.