9.26

I wrote a poem about a poison fish, as a pun in French. It was only slightly clever, but it was mine, and my phone deleted it. I saw it on the screen as I reopened this app and then—
Into the ether. Gone.
I will be the only human who ever reads that poem, which was a unique combination of words and sound shapes. I am treated to an endless string of beautiful moments that are useless and worthless, and I think it is better far to enjoy them than to throw my phone in rage.