Our words perish, mutate, vanish, leading to generations of dilution and distillation. Today we have fourth-hand, fifth-hand, n-hand lectures and contaminated contexts, ones we've confused with and infused within our own. Time burns our works in epoch decomposition. As we try to remember our past, it disintegrates beneath our touch: the edge of our memory can only be so far away from us.
and his ink bled dry as the paper crumbled
only eighteen lines survive countless volumes dead
Though I couldn't really see what I was doing and was therefore operating mostly by guesstimation, I wired my hair up today. Yes, wired - copper wire, beads, pins, a pencil, barrettes, and such were used to pull my hair backwards and upwards. I had to have two out of three roommates help me take it all out.