12994474567368127642877
37737733

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    1299447456736812764287737737733

    the appendage as it was severed

    continued to function on a myriad of levels.

    the reflection maintained...it endeavoured,

    it became what many thought was unattainable...

    this mystery, this yeti, this history

    apparently we are all forgetting?

    how and why? is the obvious question to propose?

    now you can deny in your oblivious

    quest in the know, but here it goes:

    it cannot continue to be mapped,

    scripted as some ishtar mishap.

    there needs to be living and breathing.

    the masses at it's genesis

    relatively still teething....

    it entered or re-entered my

    life at the least surprising moment.

    for once it knocked. the pitter-patter

    of a formal pre-entrance

    is a gesture life had mysteriously subtracted?

    it was a plus this addition

    decided to finally formally

    reintroduce itself to a part of my

    personality which was frankly

    long forgotten.

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    If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

    Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.