Hauled out that decrepit box again, in search of archived scraps relating to my handsdown favorite professor at college.
Perusing old journals.
Stambolian.
George Stambolian.
I love that name.
That's it?
The next line reads, I feel bursting with things to say.
Maybe, but at that moment evidently not about that wonderful man. I have exhausted the box and so am now cast adrift on memories.
On this day I think of him, as of the sublime.
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