Ink

I had written something long and rambling interpreting this poem, talking about self-image and projection and the like. It’s gone now. I’m just going to get to the point.

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e e cummings’ poems are, in a strange way, good for me. They wrench my mind out of the overly analytical space it usually occupies. This one’s a particular favorite, especially the first line, especially the fact that the first line isn’t quite complete.

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So, new ink. I’m quite pleased with it.

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