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i.

This is not an instance of communication breakdown but an example of wounded pride. I am the type of vengeful, petty wraith who is at her most compelling when she’s scorned, a shiny new convert to the scorched earth policy. You think that the act of writing is an easy, thoughtless pastime, a hobby that does not require the fried mechanics of an exhausted, Möbius strip imagination and fraying patience. You think that the act of writing is an exercise in the ego’s masturbatory need for proof of life, the unquenchable hunger for outside validation. You think that the act of writing is a symptom of a space-bound dreamer, that the process of reading and comprehending literature in order to form a cultural dialogue is as fruitless as shouting in an empty, padded room.

You fail to realize that I am writing for my life.

Here, Today

By Henning Koch

Poem

A development occurred.
Rock grew skin,
Water learned to breathe,
Scurrying things
Acquired the art of speech
And murder;

Our world seemed unlikely:
An elliptical ball
Repetitiously circling
In a place not defined.
We wondered why
Our eyes had opened here.

We knew nothing,
Not even whether
To count blessings
Or heap up bitterness.

Imprisoned in monkey thought
We lined up
On sodden branches,
Longing to have
Every thing while
Spending our days

Throwing nuts
At birds