I am not the author of this play
Defying all my attempts to rewrite, recast, edit, or expunge
Each scene has remained stubbornly true to itself
Knowing that I, despite my protestations,
Have no idea how the script is written
Neither am I the architect of this house
Its arcs, lines and curves, its walls and doors
None are of my making, whatever my claims
Life's form is entirely its own:
The sweet futility of wanting to make alterations to a
design
The intricacies and hues of which leave me open-mouthed
And speechless with gratitude
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