notes

I like secret things. When I remember to do it, I like cutting up small slips of paper on which I’ll write quotations I like, or song lyrics or poem fragments, or even sentences of my own. I fold them carefully, and put them in people’s pockets. Sometimes there’s no correlation between the words and the person to whom I’ve given them, and sometimes there is. Sometimes there is, but if pressed, I’d pretend there weren’t. An old roommate used to save the ones she’d find in her pockets, and would tape them to her laptop. I always liked doing it, because it’s like getting little fortune-cookie messages without having to eat the cookie, and without even knowing there was a cookie to eat in the first place. You just reach in your pocket for a quarter, or a piece of gum, or shove your hands in your pockets when it’s cold, and — what’s this? Did I put this in here? What is it? And then, oh! It’s a little cryptic message. Does it mean something? Doesn’t it? Sometimes you have to make the mystery you want to see in the world. Also, I usually do a handful at a time, to keep just in case I need to leave some secret messages on the fly, so I find them myself every once in a while, months after having written them. Secret messages to myself.

Here’s one that was lurking under my monitor. I don’t remember whether I wrote it out for someone in particular or not, but I do remember that it’s Byron:

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