Having written almost 100 poems in the poetry year, it is time to reflect. Reflect on whether there is some point to continuing, or writing at all. I think there is not, it has taken on a death of its own. There are few if any readers of this project, nor any need for its production in future mists of time. Sometimes one must try and fail, to find out the limits of one's meagerest talents. I am facing mine. I am also facing the limits of my age, where the roads and not the destination are the obsession of interest. Everything we write, I think is a giant traffic report, or hidden shilling for the destination.
But for that same reason, having died, in effect, there seems to be something in humming through a few more verses of this, the after life of Lillie Yifu. I won't make the year, but I don't know when it will stop.