I like to read the last words of things.

It can be from a letter, a book, a poem, or just a message. The first words have no appeal. Only the last words. Sometimes I feel as though they are supposed to wrap the entire writing together.

But what I love most is that they almost never do. There is no closure to anything in the last sentence. Nothing that ties everything together.

(If you want closure, you need to read the last few pages, maybe the last few chapters even; or the last few sentences/paragraph if you are reading a letter or text message or whatever.)

Closure is not what I am searching for. I guess I just like the last sentence (sometimes even the last three sentences) because it brings everything to an end. Not in a way where you can feel content with the writing. Just in the way that you know it is all over.

I cannot read something whole if I do not first read the last sentence. Completely unable. Because maybe it shows me that there is a point where I can stop reading. Maybe it tells me something that I have yet to figure out.

Perhaps, even, I have stored all of these last sentences in my head for future reference.

(Okay, that sounded silly even to me.)

There is not really a lot I can say to explain why I am so obsessed with the last sentence of something.

But I can say that sometimes this last sentence is so meaningful, so inspiring. And that is what I love about them, too.

Maybe I want to make the last sentence of this to be meaningful. If not to you, then to me. So I have decided, that the last sentence of this writing will be meaningful, probably only to me. Here goes nothing:

**** the world; I am Linds and I am better than everything and everyone, even you.

icantfindthequiet.
even when
it's just the t/a/p/p/ing
of the blinds
& the hummmm mmmm of the fan
there is no {peace}
#peaceful
as _ the _ air _ moves _ across
my body
E. very. cell.
wishesitwere
YoU

This is the 2nd poem I’ve come upon written in 1999, so woefully up to date I feel I must send it out.  Called Gone In A Minute.

                    Gone In A Minute

An avalanche, a mud slide ,
Every meter drenched and plastered,
Gliding and colliding, guided
By terrain alone,
And crash, boom, clang,
The whole shebang is gone.

People!  Yes, of course!
Their words and art;
The future’s start.
Centuries of minds,
Mines of thinking gone:  
In a non-thinking wink.

How long then, family name?
The worked for fame?
Volcanic ash, a lava stream,
Centuries of verse, and worse,
Memory all creamed away.

Fire, flood, the drowned, the charred:
Things no longer anything;
The best and worst on equal footing.

Wars: the scarred, disfigured, marred
And all the future Bachs, Picassos,
Jenny Linds, Carusos,
Shakespeares, Einsteins,
(not to mention Arlene Corwins)
Never to expand a wing,
Create a thing,

The crux is, what we bring to mind
How easy and complete,
How fast defeat
Comes to a globe
Once calamity’s in orbit.
And we wonder what is worth it, what is not,
Ask what lasts when pasts wiped out
Leave nothing.

Gone In A Minute 8 22.2020/improved from1.2.1999 Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin