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I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn’t get—and never would get.
Words were different when they lived inside of you.
“from what we cannot hold the stars are made.”
There was something sad and solitary about the sketch and I wondered if that’s the way he saw the world or if that’s the way he saw my world.
I couldn’t stand my own cruelty.
