a pact
i finally get it. i finally understand what my professer keeps blabbing on and on and on and on about. this literary great tradition. the way any writer must negotiate with these past ghosts. defining yourself really depends on the people who came before you. and i wonder why it must happen this way. why it seems the self is only defined using the boundaries set up between me and others. a great part of my self has been formed through my negotiations with him. but now i am forced to negotiate with these literary personas that i have never even met. i have to decide whether i am in the wasteland or in williams' spring. why must his red wheel barrow ride up my ass constantly? where do i fit amongst this spectrum? where do their ideas end and mine start? its like a labyrinth. monsters at every corner. wading through the pond of past ideas. picking up scraps. absorbing. osmosis.

Forgive me
they were so delicious
so sweet
and so cold