The name was unfamiliar to me but it reminded me of a thing now abandoned in the back of my mental sock-drawer. I was once hell-bent on writing a poem that was visibly unremarkable and made perfect sense but included a central thread that read: anyone found speedreading this poem will be shot.
Circumstances overtook it; he who would have caught it when I threw it, died before I was able to finish it. Speedreading seems to have died, too. For each sorrow there comes a little joy.