It may be that you don’t like poetry. You might not want your heartstrings tugged by dancing language which renders ordinary extraordinary. You might not want to recognise aspects of yourself, some of which may be better forgotten. You might not want to weep as echoes of your own losses sweep over you or laugh with delight as you recall love.
You might not want to be human.
If you do, read this book, preferably aloud (the neighbours didn’t shout at me, so you should get away with it).
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