They're nothing important now, though they must have been at some point in their writing: depositions, sworn statements; judgments that sent the innocent back to their wives, or sentenced the guilty to punishment. A yellowed letter fell out of a sheaf of crumpled pages bound together with rubber bands—It read like a map slowly uncovering hidden markings, tracking your life back to an origin you didn't yet know. Sometimes you wonder: if you hadn't uncreased its folds to read, would the libretto carry a different song, life fill with a different cast of characters?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.