Just past the city limits of my mind, there is a junkyard or Gehenna of all the the poems I didn't write before they skipped town. They're way better than the stuff I usually produce. You'll just have to take my word for it, I guess.
The poems in the Gehenna graveyard or junkyard cover a vast array of colossal topics, each more soul-piercing than the last. As I recall, they are alternately profound, hilarious, pithy, and devastatingly sexy. Passionate spirituality, mountain-moving love, the whispers of God and angels are all almost certainly discussed, although I cannot verify it. The poems all make love and progeny. The colony must be self-sustaining by now, if my calculations are correct.
I tried to drive there earlier, but the roads all end suddenly, in ramps, catapulting the unsuspecting traveler off the edge of the known world. I screeched to a stop just short of the abyss.
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