2002, inspired from the following poem:
"Learned Helpfulness"
by Camus (Not Albert)
I'm wired to live
like it's a game of Operation:
grasping at what I need
without tripping the wires,
setting people off.
Making small moves
to avoid losing everything.
Practice makes me pretty skilled:
since my nerves are tuned
to a grating alarm,
failure feels like obliteration.
Even surgical precision, though,
yields only a pile of plastic;
winning means
I didn't make a sound.
Maybe it's time to learn a new game.
I don't know how to put
the tweezers down.
