Sometimes words are all we have to stave off loneliness, comfort one another, send messages to those beyond our reach. Sometimes they're all we have with which to forge an identity, all we have to work with as we try to determine which of the parallel lives we lead at work, home and in our politics defines us most authentically-or do these parallels all somehow intersect? Is there an authentic self? If so, where do we find it? Inside ourselves?...
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Poetry