Immortal

We dip ourselves in the ink
Of our thoughts and words and
Emotions and deeds
And inscribe in tiny lettering
Tiny stories on our tiny corner
Of the tapestry of this infinite universe.

And minuscule though we are,
We are heroes and heroines of
Our tiny stories, and
Our accomplishments and achievements
And poetry and love affairs
Shall be sung in paeans
By every tendril of summer wind that
Blows through the dusty streets of our
Hometowns,
(The dust ground out of the slow
Grinding of the gears of Time)
And our tiny stories shall live on
In the hearts and minds of the tiny people
We love. And theirs'
Shall live on as well, in some one else's;

And thus we are immortal -
We cheat death through
These doubly linked-lists
Of love.

...

(I am Tolstoy, and

I want to be Chekhov. I am

The Self-Taught Man, and I want to be Antoine Roquentin.

I am Betsy, and I want to be Esther Greenwood.

I am milk.)