Perhaps I'm stretching the word "expulsion" beyond the physical, but I've been carrying around ideas and thoughts and observations for the last twenty years, and they seem to be bursting up to the surface like underwater bubbles, exhaled by some adventurous scuba diver.
I'm aware that this post is making little sense, but I'll publish it anyway.
The short version:
Today I decided, with certainty, that I am going to write the things that I feel that I need to write, not from spite, but because those things are going to battle around inside my brain until I can get them onto paper.
So I'm going to write a poetry thesis.
And now I am done with self-seriousness and contrived metaphor, if only for the evening. If you read this far, thank you and I'm sorry.
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