Dear Punks,
By the end of your academic project, you should be able to write like your professor does... or at least better than what you are producing now. I am posting her poem so that whenever you get to read this, you will be reminded that you are already within the courtyard of the gods. It is up to you to follow their footsteps... or footprints, if you are willing enough to learn from them.
Burn, and rise above your ashes.
Autobiographyby Conchitina Cruz
While you wait for the inevitable hour of loss, the man in the book tips his hat to the protagonist who has asked for directions to the subway. You follow him before he disappears in the crowd. Because you don't want to be lost, you clutch his elbow, slip your hand inside his coat pocket. In the story of your life with the man in the book, there is a bench in the park reserved only for you. Everything else on the way is atmosphere: the headlines, the traffic lights, the vendor of marionettes. Somewhere, maybe a phone will ring, maybe someone will put her hand on your shoulder and tell you the news you've been waiting for, but that is another life. Here you are, smiling at the man who buys you a puppy on strings, crossing the street with your little family, the wooden dog strutting by your feet. Here you are, sitting on a bench as the man rubs your back and reads the paper, and it is warm in the city, it seems to get warmer each day.
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