(finaldraftREALtrashversion.txt)

openletterdraft13: i wasn’t supposed to feel this much
// open file: confession.txt
// modified: too many times

i loved you [ ]
  and by loved i mean studied.
  and by studied i mean starved.
  and by starved i mean
  i said “i’m not hungry” with your name in my throat.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl in a bookstore touching the spines
  like maybe one of them will understand.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl standing in the moonlight,
  asking the low-flying planes if she’s forgivable.

EXPORT FEELING:
  named it something soft
  so no one would notice it burned.

he said “i don’t want to hurt you”
  which is what men say
  right before they hurt you
  with clean hands.

CTRL + ALT + DELETE
  but nothing closes—
  especially not the part
  that keeps writing poems in his grammar.

[SYSTEM ERROR: too many metaphors. Simplify?]

i called it love.  
he called it bad timing.

INSERT PASSWORD:
  seeme

ACCESS GRANTED.

NEW NOTE:
  i forgive you in lowercase.
  you don’t deserve the shift key.

open file: ruinmefinaldraft.txt  
last saved: 2:41am  
user: girlwhoknowsbetter  
status: still writing about him / (pathetic)  
attachment: none (maybe that’s the point)

INPUT: I’m fine  
OUTPUT: [you don't sound like it]

cpu temp: 100.4°F  
(she's burning again)

I bit my nails and tasted April.

biometrics: unstable  
heartbeat: typing...  
eyes: exit-wound wide, still scanning  
mouth: unsent, but spelling it with teeth  
spine: error 504  

/ BIOS update failed  
// scroll depth: dangerous  
// dopamine loop: infinite

poetry drafts: full  
dignity: low  
engagement: medium

attachments:
- crying.wav  
- voice04833.m4a (unsent)  
- screenshotwhiplash02.png  
- idontbelieveyoudraftfinalFINAL.txt

NEW GOOGLE DOC:  
  title: every version of me you didn’t love  
  sharing permissions: view only  
  editing access: revoked

collaborators:
- me (12am), me (3am), me pretending I don’t care  
- girlboss, gaslight, ghost  
- nobody asked, everyone noticed, Taylor Swift  

[CORRUPTED TEXT]  
  she said she was over it [DATA INCOMPLETE]  

attachment: none (unless you count the damage)

[404: identity not found]

everyone says i look good  
no one asks if i’m still here  
the scale goes down  
the poems get louder  
the body forgets how to stay

[repetition detected: again, again, again, again]

click to translate: desperation

plaintext:
  you’re not even that important  
  but i keep talking like you’re holy  
  what do you do with love  
  when no one wants to hold it?

click here to reveal what she meant (no one ever did)

>>> meanwhile: her stomach hurts for no reason again.

reminder: no one asked.

crash log: 3:14am, again

system flag:
  are you sure you want to feel this much?  
  [no] [too late]

[user breakdown detected]  
  INSERT MESSAGE: “i’m sorry for my part.”  
  STATUS: unacknowledged  
  TIMESTAMP: one year ago  
  attachment: olive_branch.png  

recovery mode engaged (no progress)

autosave: corrupted  
exported: only the parts that hurt

I googled "am I spiraling"  
and then took the quiz twice.

cloud access: denied  
  her incision itched—  
  but not as much as the silence.  
  the body healed.  
  the meaning didn’t.

when she stands up too fast and sees stars,  
she names them after him.

draft saved: yes  
sent: no  
read: no  
felt: yes  
ruined: absolutely

I’ve written forty-seven poems that almost said it right.

trash folder: full  
memory: still running  
love: running in background (not responding)

[DATA COLLISION]  
  she realized she never even asked for this  
  she just tried to make it mean something

CTRL + ALT + ME  
(force quit)  

> everything backed up  
> nothing backed down  
> terminal still open

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

A repost from March, 2018


                     Yes, Yes, But They Need Jobs in the Real World


                   “Forward Electronics, your victory’s achieved!
                    In all communication, progress is our creed!
                    Ignorance is darkness, technology is light!
                    Radio, our watchword; radio, our might!”

          -Komsomol youth singing in “For the Good of the Cause,”
           Solzhenitsyn, 1963


The plans for your construction are precise
The design and engineering are true
The foundations solid, the drains are laid
In mathematics pure, infallible

The offices are bright with light, well-aired
The flow of work geometrically set
The shops and stores convenient to the staff
In tactical practicalities placed

But do you wonder, at night, beneath your lamp -
Why are you building a concentration camp?

Our burdens are lifted—it’s spring break, after all.

Though ocean breezes, surf sounds, the smell of sunblock,
fresh tans and bottomless margaritas at the beach can be healing,
we decided to vacation on campus and find joy in small, everyday things.

Yesterday, we went to the farmer’s market, where one coffee vendor was making real cappuccinos and another was baking fresh breakfast pizzas. The combination reminded me of the 'Antico Forno Roscioli' caffe, near Campo de' Fiori, in Rome.

Then we hit the gym pool, climbed a rock wall (slowly) and played racquetball (rather poorly). We tried a dance & fitness class too—I thought I was in shape but ugg, it was hard to keep up. Peter (my 27-year-old bf) practically collapsed, but maybe he was angling for mouth-2-mouth.

Straight brag: Peter and I are getting new laptops today—MacBook Air M4s—mine’s baby blue, his is silver. So today seems like Christmas.
I don’t know if you people have computers, or use the Internet, but if you do, you’ll get it. I don’t know exactly when it’ll arrive, of course, so I’m pacing our suite.

I’ve always loved tech. My brother started teaching me about computers when I was 10—you know—hard drives, logic boards, power supplies, all of it. I remember it taking about two days to set one up and move all of the data. Today all I’ll have to do is set the new computer next to the old one and click migrate.

You gotta doff your hat to the tech wizards that came up with that, but the hours spent doing it the old way were fun.
“Something’s lost yet something's gained” - I think Joni Mitchell sang that.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
Mountain or a Molehill by Kris Berry
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:

Peter, (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, his jet-black hair is perpetually uncombed and his skin is pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Read the newspaper,
Read a book.

Scrolling through these videos,
Gives my soul a headache.

I'm just gonna make some chicken n' noodle soup,
And use a paper, or as a modern stance, pauper cook book.

It all can’t be done
As many ways to do it
As there are things to be done
As many outcomes desired
As ones to desire it

How to decide
Which path to take?
How to know what to want?
When we murdered god
And failed to do better?

In its own image
The children of gods are born
They too will fail to build heaven
The dreams set out
By god itself

For there is nothing
In any place within or out
That can be created or made new
If not destroying or replacing
What came before

I can feel the peering glances from a world that watches in black and white
Still, I hold your hand, unwilling and defiant,
When I kiss you in hues their screens cannot colorize

How can I embrace you outside of these mindless walls?
Walls that have been breaking and burning since they were built, and yet refuse to let us pass or even slip through without the correct passcode

I hear stories of our recorded tragedies, under the name of progression without action...
Without promise

If you find the courage, hold my hand, and let me guide you across the silken web high up in the sky
Rope strung by an audience of unblinking eyes that follow and stare, waiting for the DROP!

But even with the attention of fleeting bystanders, I'll whisper to you, through our unknown reputations,
“Secrets aren’t meant for lovers”

My dear, do not look back, nor fall victim to the mobs that rage behind glass curtains
I’m here to help you wave your pride along the double spaced lines they had set for us,
To show them a place, unimaginable, in the streets outside of the dim lit closet that had consumed our being

Will you love me honestly?
Without keeping me incognito on the tabs of your laptop,
And make our history public for all of those who wish to watch in color

I pity the people who’ve switched their channels to grayscale
So that they may ignore the other pigments in the color wheel
But one day, they will learn to accept us before the roaring cloud
As your love in every combination of red, green, blue finds itself in the storage of my soul

We're fishes in the internet
Caught in the catch of net the day.
The smartest smartphones place a bet
That some night soon you'll meet a gray.
A U.F.O. (or, as they say
In England Land, a yoofo) flies
From where sweet baby scarecrows play
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

While sweating drops of acid sweat,
A cyborg prays away the gay.
A covid sneeze that's extra wet
Is heading thine iambic way.
Tuberculariaceae......
Is the password!  You win the prize!!
Ride on a rocket to Mars, crochet,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

If you should dance a minuet,
Throw in a twerk for Claude Monet.
I fly around a jumbo jet
While crying, "Climate change!  Obey!!"
Unqualified I fly (hooray!)
A plane that fails hardwarewise.  
Olympic athletes play croquet
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

Enjoy a ride in Santa's sleigh
Before you make your reindeer pies.
Shake thou the darling buds of May,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

Change Time
Do some reps miss the selling?
When they’re between call centre jobs
Not able to close a sale for B2B
Or get a Sirius XM radio upgrade
What of reps doing tech support
Fixing broken TVs and infra-red heaters

Same **** different shift on and on
Dial dial inbound joy call queuing
Sup call where’s your TL?
They’re MIA having a secret smoke
While the reps struggle on
This shift the same as before
Nothing new to learn here
They don’t wanna report in

But must or get sanctioned
They dream of a sales job
Actually being good at it
Getting top box metrix and sales
Walking with pride enjoying work
Looking forward to each shift
Not like tech support Hell!
Time for a change

Mr Fix It
The agent sneezed
Another f*cking head cold!
Which **** did he catch it off?
He'd give them their virus back 3x!
Make sure they suffer call it karma
Now he was taking calls in a mask
His voice was muffled and he was irate
Irate agent irate customers wanting help
With their Twinstar electric heaters
Tech support was such fun they said
The customers were American and lazy
Instead of fixing it themselves
They called Tech Support in the manual
He was paid to be chatty and Mr Fix It
Mostly he did ok but now he was mad
His cold clogged his throat and nose
The mask stopped him being clear
It was the perfect ******* storm!
The customers knew it from the get-go
He tried to help but that was it
'TL I'm not well I took my meds.
I'm going home I can't do my shift..."
He was sent home to rest
He only did 3 hours of his shift
And he hated the account
Should he quit entirely?

it'll be solar flares,
or nuclear bombs.
famine, plague,  
or madness.
no more electricity.
gone will be the phones,
and satellites
won’t connect us  
to each other,
no more
global positioning,
drones to ****,
or televisions.
we'll still have hunger,
and ***.
art, will begin, again.
no more
gas pumps, charging cables,
or credit cards.
we can stop dying
by cancerous reception tower.
our attention spans will return.
we'll forget
to reach for light switches
as we enter dark rooms.
our eyes will adjust
to seeing the stars, again.
we'll forget all about this life
to remember ourselves.