distant ships, all along the coastline. ocean liners out on the horizon like tiny knots in twine. -- fucking T.s. Elliot. Or was it Pound? who cares, fuck'em both. Dont even burn their books, martyrdom is too worthy. Let them sit on shelves untouched, withering, aging yellowing to dust. Until the pages crumble at the touch, and the all the pages fall from the binding -- Sometimes, I would hear it -- to the floor where they would splatter scatter flop to the ground, fanning out. -- down the hall, or form down the road. It was always so far away and I so far along some path a thought sent me down. I'd hear just the tailed end, the least syllable-and-a-half. Yet I knew it. You just know it. Know that someone called your name. -- He wrote a book of poems about cats, for fuck sake. And dont give me that "but they have double meanings" or "applications to real world things". Total bullshit. They're just fucking cat poems. Fucking hack. -- When you realize someone's already had your idea. -- The voice that called you it always airy, always very distant, as if it had traveled over many fields to reach you. It was always female for me. Always a woman. -- They dont come anymore. They've stopped. -- They dont come anymore.
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