The trouble with never publishing your book, or like, even printing it — is that eventually your computer breaks down and wont let you back in.
This might be because it’s tired of moving houses and when it heard you’d be passing another 500 miles to find a home it decided its better days were behind it and now its days are spent and it goes into retirement without a notice.
So, the shame is that all of my favorite poetry (and all of the crap)
All of my carefully mastered words (or really, thrown on a page to just get them out)
and all of it is just gone now. Save what is here, and what I wrote on my typewriter.

The beauty is, (and the horror is)
It does truly feel like it’s scratch from which I now start rebuilding the worlds I’ve made up in my mind.

And should I even try.

On the other hand,
Thank goodness for the internet.



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