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Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Bookself Poem

In this dream I am in a restaurant with some people. I am supposed to write a poem on the spot so I look at an empty bookshelf that happens to be there and decide to compose my poem in Spanish:

Oh estante, me inspiras una literatura infinita

vacío, me llenas de poemas sin fin

[Oh bookshelf, you inspire in me an infinite literature

empty, you fill me with poems without cease]

A woman is indignant because my poem isn't good enough. I remain unruffled, not because I agree my poem is all that bad, but just because it's not the kind of thing to worry about. It's just a few lines I threw off, off the top of my head.

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