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Buster-one-zero-six-four-nine,

the name of a dog in the yard.

I’m typing it out on a glowing line

and hitting the keys too hard.

The server is gone and the site is a ghost,

a link that goes nowhere at all.

All of the things that I valued the most

are behind a digital wall.

The cursor just blinks in the empty white,

a steady and rhythmic beat.

I’m holding a memory much too tight

in the cold of the window seat.