I wrote a zine that I never published. I sat at an open window overlooking a beautiful forest and pecked away at a tiny typewriter. I sat in a dark, cold room with a single shaft of light illuminating me and my typing. This was not a dream, it really happened. Those lost words never went anywhere, and they never shall, for most of them have become the shredded newspaper as bedding in the proverbial hampster's cage.
I was going to write the
whole thing in rhyme
But it'd take an inordinate time
So I'll write it without, though it'll..