I have all the time in the world time enough to write such things as no one may ever see yet you read, you listen so understand first that time, so short for you easily squanders I hence do exhort you quit; read a good romance novel the work of Kropotkin the sonnets of Quevedo for there’s nothing of sufficient value I could ever say to redeem the loss I occasion this verse is merely the marginalia of a pawn in a zero-sum game a confession of the fear to be lost to time, forgot the scribbles on the edges of pages filled with meaning you cannot herewith partake leaving you only clues and hints that no structure of thought may penetrate the mystery nor any amount of faith elicit the resplendence of the darkness we inhabit that the building of empire and the screaming and writhing of wretched souls in our many hells the pride of siring children the convictions of justice are all for naught the legacy of emmets the patrimony of ashes and snow [7-XI-98]