My words are but wisps of cloud. Forever in motion, ephemeral, never the same. For who will remember them when I am gone? For who remembers them now? My words are but xeroxed copies of xeroxed copies. They only remind, not inspire. For what word has never been spoken? For what word lacks precedent? My words are a picket line. Refusing to work, denying me collaboration. For who am I to say what they are, and how they are to be used? My words are only words, and none of the above.



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