Not at all materialistic,
but possessive of my possessions.
Things that mean a lot to me,
not much bit scraps of paper, pages sewn together.
I made them to fit perfectly and
They are my most precious of things,
not money or gold-cut rings.
All these glued fragments of memories of bits and pieces of my wonder.
Although they fog-- unclear like muddy waters,
They make sense to me, roll smoothly over my tongue
They soothe me, a map of ink indentations,
They derive from me.

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