You haven't earned anything,
Least of all the grief you've got
Coming to you. Memoirists
Wicked as novelists plot
How to make sense of their lives.
Granted that my life makes sense,
Illuminating logos
As stoics understood it,
Your life, if indeed your life
Exists, makes no sense at all.
You have been undeserving
Of your joys and calumnies,
The sufferings delivered
By compositions like this.
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