How to explain this other life
filled with books
and writers and authors and poets
I have never met,
yet with whom I feel most at home?

I travel to work at the bank each day
to earn my keep,
to touch base with a few live people,
then hurry back to my real life
where it matters not
who had a divorce
or a bankruptcy
or an illness
destroy their credit.

I have friends to read.
I have thoughts to think
and even a couple to share,
deeper that the fluff I post.

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