Grey morning, quiet string instruments, slow to
You must login to vote
crescendo - like crickets in winter, slumbering warmly
until the springy summer - underground on vacation. So
says the sign.
But write I must, I'm compelled, it's necessary to
save the world, or help part of the world, maybe a
single human, and it all rests, scales of justice, on
my little plea, a single letter sent to a stoic Ivy committee.
What is it to save the world, anyhow? My application reduces it to "cognitive sciences" and "how people learn."
So I inspire my fingers, magnetize my furious thoughts -
whipping-speedy yellow whirls, not of fury red anger -
my kicking legs now placed on grass-overgrown-rails,
timeless, exaggerated tracks that
lead further into the awesome unknown while my fingers type.
Gung-ho-go! Who knows what it is to save anything, besides a perception, but knowledge is a fine start.
-=[ Blank this intentional space! ]=-