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Sticky note. What a horrible name for an awful product: busy yellow square, not even large enough for a haiku, made only for the distracted, modern mind, and for lovers who don’t speak and children who feel harassed with the work and weight of a world that does not even yet see them.

So here is a note, thought out in a streaming elegant calligraphy, the ink thick and black from a Waterman pen passed down from a great-grandmother who wrote short poems between endless chores and handiwork. Hidden, hidden like happiness.

The thought is a reminder, like a sticky note, but because it must last a long, long time, perhaps for eternity and beyond, the notations containing the thought (language, and whatever is behind the language. First force, a bringing forth) must circle the mind like a kite with a tail, or an ouroboros, bringing the self into the self that is not a self but something greater and something empty all at once.

So simple, the reminder is the content of all the world, the soul emptied like a vessel, waiting for Grace:

Do not call him.

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