reading old manifestos is like looking into lost, mad pasts,
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
writing those lines in tiny black notebooks, tightly bound,
in tiny, ramshackle black print.
looking at old photographs is like looking into lies
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
the flash went off, when our smiles told some impossibly small fraction of the story,
without any of the depth that makes reality real.
looking inside is like digging through your own mess,
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
you left things muddied, half-forgotten, knowing you'd be back to dig,
unaware of how different your digger would be
JHS
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constant criticism is the only way this works