A gaunt man wearing a fur hat and beat up blue parka twiddles his thumbs on a Sunday morning in Central Park.

A casual observer would ask: “Well isn’t there a chess game he could be playing right now? I mean, who twiddles his thumbs these days anyway? Is he counting the number of twiddles? How many twiddles are possible in a minute? How long has he been twiddling? Maybe he twiddled here last night and kept twiddling straight through to the dawn. God, I’ve been standing here observing this man, and I’m afraid to go up and ask him what his deal is.”

Author: Aidan Badinger I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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