The following was inscribed into a book of poetry I tied together with spaghetti.
Dear Studio Y Family,
You are where I was, which is a roundabout way to say that I wish I was still there and I was with you. I’d shake your hand. Give you a tour. Show you my favourite poem here. It may be the same as yours. It may not be, and you may hate it all. Don’t worry – I did too. Parts of Studio Y were an alcoholic binge of forgetting and a mad fury against flimsy elastic band handcuffs that wouldn’t break. Those moments were shit. You may be in one shit rut now. So, shit then. Write. Produce poetry. Bad poetry. Poetry you’ll critique. Poetry you’ll hate. Poetry like this, but not like it all the same because it’ll be yours and one day I may be where you are now and I’ll read what you wrote and I’ll wish you were there to give me a tour or show me your favourite poem.
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