If I could find a souvenir, just to prove the world was here
Way back in this entry, I begged my f-list to find a certain poem. My f-list contains poets, poetry-lovers, librarians and the daughters of librarians, and yet no one has found it. It's been posted on Google Answers and gone unanswered; it was posted on a specialist poem-finding bulletin board and no one there had ever heard of it.
I am forced to draw the conclusion that someone - Daleks? John Crichton? Rogue Time Agents? Sam Vimes? - has, either maliciously, accidentally or as a necessary sacrifice for the greater good, erased it from the timeline so that the poem was, in fact, never written.
Delicious, crunchy internet cookies for anyone who comes up with a more detailed explanation of how this happened and why I am the only person who remembers its existence - it's not like my memory was ever exactly reliable, after all. Delicious Internet cookies and the sexual favour of your choice* for anyone who can actually find me the damn poem.
*Or some other favour, should you turn out to be a blood relative or otherwise sexually-incompatible life-form.
I am forced to draw the conclusion that someone - Daleks? John Crichton? Rogue Time Agents? Sam Vimes? - has, either maliciously, accidentally or as a necessary sacrifice for the greater good, erased it from the timeline so that the poem was, in fact, never written.
Delicious, crunchy internet cookies for anyone who comes up with a more detailed explanation of how this happened and why I am the only person who remembers its existence - it's not like my memory was ever exactly reliable, after all. Delicious Internet cookies and the sexual favour of your choice* for anyone who can actually find me the damn poem.
*Or some other favour, should you turn out to be a blood relative or otherwise sexually-incompatible life-form.