11-17-08 - 11:36 p.m.

I left my jump drive in a school computer.
It contained my translations, a poem about death.
The time of year is autumn: the frost crackles in the grass, but the nights are merely cool.
I do not have the propensity for poetry right now; I cannot imagine crafting a lilting turn of phrase, an image that whirls of color or light.
I wonder if that person has erased my words, reused the small device oval-shaped like a pill. I suppose it would only be fair.

please sign my guestbook and i will be eternally grateful

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