Habitually, feeling an itch to write,
I’m introspective: sitting at the table
over a blank sheet, cherishing my blight
and rust, I think: “What if I'll not be able
to write a single stanza anymore?
What if to chuck it all, to travel, omnia
mea mecum porto*… What is all this for:
the doubts, the all-nighters, the insomnia?
What if…" Oh,...
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