So many things live only for a day — flowers, insects, rain, and sometimes people — yet see how different, how strange the world would be without them. Love it all. Never look away.
To embrace, rather than resist, the ephemeral nature of sharing one’s thoughts online.
Helped, and also haunted by, mechanical memory. The neat, efficient archive (see cemetery rows, honeycomb) is for oneself, for the idle many, the rare few.
A Few More Scratches
Feet, legs, arms, hands.
The more one wears, the more one lives.
Dust, pages, sticks, pens.
Little boy falls, gets up again.
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