49.365
by David Fieni
You have a lot of reading and clicking to do in a very short time. Photos of cats and children, dear friends graduating, pictures of your radiant niece, a neighbor with bats in her attic, Bob Dylan’s birthday, viral graffiti of a Brazilian boy with nothing to eat but a soccer ball.
But what if you did things differently? Since the first link you look upon you yourself become, what if you were to smell these lilacs I’m holding out to you and you alone, and what if you were to take this grass, this morning glory, this red and white clover, and this song of the phoebe bird I’ve knit into these words along with the school mistress, the town drunkard, and your manly, mean, angered, just, and self-sufficient mother? Can you tell me whether that which appears so is so or whether it is just flashing and specks? Why not let this become part of you as you go forth and will go forth every day?
The Alarm Clock of Love 
Yes, and yes and yes. Yes.
Fred (you) can just go fuck (your-)himself, cause (you’re)he’s wrong, (you)he never knew what any of this was about anyway.
Iron filings pulling to an unseen magnet that may or may not be north. What that means for where we are going. We decide that, and what to remember .
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Pronouns are trickery in this virtual space. Conclusions remain the same, regardless.
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