Poetry. "Who can sing such music? Who can avoid it.... It is as though one had to make of such discordant despairs a curious annealing pattern, an accommodating acknowledgement of uselessness that nonetheless was, truly, all our lives seem to prove. We worked, we were good, we cared for each other as best we could—and that is all it ever is, ever comes to, in the brutal, senseless commitment of our lives. We come, we go—and, at the very bet, like they say, someone, just one, remembers."—Robert Creeley