Eighty-four BPM

I slipped past the propped foyer door downstairs and walked half a block to the corner laundromat. The room was mostly empty, but commercial dryer number twelve was working hard. Someone had thrown a pair of canvas sneakers inside. Every full rotation delivered a heavy thud against the drum followed by a dry metallic scrape, landing at roughly eighty-four beats per minute. I climbed onto an orange molded plastic chair opposite the machine to watch the glass drum turn. It is a crude bassline, but the timing is remarkably steady. I stayed until the timer clicked off. while mehz was flying