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Brigid is a goddess of poetry among her other trades, and every so often I wake with a line that doesn't feel like mine. Last night's: 'The well remembers what the bucket forgets.' I keep a pencil by the bed now, not a pen, because pens die at 3am and pencils don't. Wrote it on the back of the electric bill. No idea yet what the rest of the poem is. I'm in no rush. She's never once handed me the whole thing at once.