Being a poet pays nothing—that’s probably why I also write prudent stories
in TypeScript and Java—and I wrote my very first stanza out of love anyway,
but she just laughed at me—the girl, I mean, not love, as love has no feelings
and will leave you at the first wink of a passing globetrotter so you can learn
some legal jargon and that no one fancies a homebody in this brave new world
of dating algorithms. But I guess I could always become a magician—it worked
for Mrs. Münchgstettner—if it weren’t for my stage fright and the conviction
that nothing the world had to offer I couldn’t find in the free verse and ragtime
reclined on my sofa.
hidden pilcrow 