one night i deleted everything that was here (if there was a here or could be, this space) as if to erase my past, to cover up my mistakes, to walk away; only because the things my adolescent fantasy held, the dream of being seen had been fulfilled, in all its hubris and wildflowers the spring was sprung and the gesture hollow. & I didn't really delete anything, certainly not the past, but really I mean I diddn't delete a single thing, just shifted them sligggghtly. this maladroit sleight of hand only sparked a derivative flurry of confusion, a halfmist of smoke accenting mirrors and the simulation of a disjoint in continuity. & in fact the whole ordeal only stripped me of a useful tool for self-assessment, a familiar discipline and proverbial thorn burning for a frequent scratch. & in the final analysis, what aid is vanity indeed? no. there's a better moral: say what you mean instead of disguising the lack of thought in a shroud of verbiage.