Todd Anderson | Dead Poet's Society | Barways
Todds are tricky things, in that they have a tendency to curl up into the most disused corner they can find and do things like quietly fester in their own insecurity or write poetry that probably no one will be allowed to read until at least a decade.
Or, at least, that's the idea. After a moment, he makes a frustrated noise and tears a page out so he can scrawl something at the very top of the next page, which he proceeds to stare at with something like despair.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.*
*Jorge Luis Borges, The Art of Poetry