Thousands of generations
of human life
must resolve
before one man can sit here
and jab blindly at hieroglyphs
under two competing lights
both equally ingenuine
typing and tendering
thoughts
in the currency of writing
he hopes to invite in
some spur of the moment
some hurtful opponent
simple and vivid
to blind him for at least a moment
to the complex sorrows of the modern world
so that he can wallow in a sea of words,
and forget that to which he's inured
a biography written every day
read by no one,
but written anyway,
but the writing doesn't drive the gloom away.