The history of the world for as long as I can remember
Casey Killingsworth
As far as I know there really is some pattern to the billions of poems we have left behind, you know, the old applications for jobs we never got, clandestine napkin messages to waitresses in the bars we drank at, the arguments we had with our wives that ended up as divorce documents, all those scraps of paper still orbiting the world like greenhouse gases. At least that’s the way I see it. Sometimes I like to believe all those scraps, the slices of memoirs we sacrificed for a single moment’s clear image of the universe, they’re like those little birds always flying synchronously together like storm clouds in the wind, an arc or maybe not an arc but all moving in the same direction, because all we can do is look up to try to figure out what they mean. But we can’t.
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