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Books scattered by the bed:
novels, guides, comics
(not all read (many));
a dusty, four-stringed guitar;
old boxes that housed electronics
that no longer function
(one has a warranty in, I’m sure).

All signs of me:
pointers to moments lived;
old habits that refused to die;
things that must have happened:
little certainties.

A concrete history
to remind me who I was;
who I may still be
– to tell me who I am.

It’s quite a mess,
to be honest
I never know
when to let go.

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