In a box, long forgotten, inside my Aunt’s Hoarding Home, I found an old autograph book. Apparently, a few of William/Willie’s admirers left inscriptions inside, along the way, to say hello.
The days I turn wild and rageful are
the days I long to spend with you
I long to see your glorious mind
to hear your stories of lost time
the days I turn to madness are
the days that I feel shackled
to the bonfires of my bosses
to the planks of those hallways
that lead nowhere. I return.
daily I collect paper
like ants collecting the sands of the earth
on their backs
mad and burnt by the monotony
burnt by this never-ending trail
of the mad, of the stuck, of the gluttony; the dreams of others
I carry on my shoulders and
spent and burnt with the agony of longing
to hear your wonderful stories.
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