On the third planet of an average sun in an outer arm of a Milky Way Galaxy hurtling towards Andromeda, it seems to be what I am suppose to do.
If I don't write the poems that must be written, who will? The time line runs like this:
Besides, the poems keep rattling around inside my head until I let them out. Until I write them down, the noise makes it impossible to think about much of anything else.

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