Salute those who read the end of the book first
for they seek a reason to read.
This is the back of the book,
the foundation, the bed rock;
this is the mantle, the crust,
upon which the detritus of words and thought,
are sediment, and the scribble
between the lines, wash.
You who look for an index
are bound to be disappointed—
crumbs do not a sandwich make.
Do not be startled if a brave page resists;
what is blank may want not for ink.
Finding your way here was no coincidence.
What is the point of beginning
if the end is not what you desire?



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