OCCUPANT
The sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only...

A CRITIC
Pick up your socks. Clean the house once in a while. Go to the dentist. ...

HISTORIAN
Piles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, shreds of clothes...

YOU WHO KNOW
I was just enough bigger that I could wrestle you into the clean straw of the mow...

GRIFFY LAKE
I spread my smooth water like a lap and caught the trees' faces where they fell...

Dear Eric,

Piles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, 
shreds of clothes, shards of plates--my life is consumed by artifacts. 
I take a few minutes' sleep every three or four hours, I work around 
the clock as I have for years, but the objects of my study still 
accumulate and offer no help. I do all.
	
Once (I was very young) I asked if I could have been born to 
other parents. The answer I received was not pleasing. I asked other 
questions, and now I can see this is where it all started. With 
a patience even I do not understand, I have labored to explain, 
all my life.
	
The one thing I did not keep track of was my years, and now I 
sense I am very old. I think I may be dying. But I am close to 
my triumph, almost ready to justify everything. I have not 
heard from you yet. Why? I don't need much--a brief narrative, 
an important incident or two, even a description of your footwear, 
or a lock of hair.
	
Without data on everyone, how can the pattern become clear? Please. 
I need your response.

Historian


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