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Busy, with an idea for a code, I write signals hurrying from left to right, or right to left, by obscure routes, for my own reasons; taking a word like writes down tiers of tries until its secret rites make sense; or until, suddenly, RATS can amazingly and funnily become STAR and right to left that small star is mine, for my own liking, to stare its five lucky pins inside out, to store forever kindly, as if it were a star I touched and a miracle I really wrote.