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January 11, 2018
I wonít be able to stay here much longer. Something wonít let me. It will drive me to the shower, into clothes and up and about to do useful things. As if this were not useful. Itís not useful. It is useful. I am of two minds about this thing and it occurs to me that I have done too much with it. I have done too little. I have climbed the white pines outside my motherís house and carved poems into their trunks. Will that buy me a little immortality? No. Nothing lasts forever. Not you. Not me. Nothing.