“He’ll probably go home and write a poem about it,” commented my teacher; so I did. I expressed my sadness in a piece that everyone except me and an honest friend loved. Back then we convened, virtually, and the thrill of writing something was superseded by the glee of refreshing the page and seeing a new comment; which was itself supplanted by disappointment when the page stayed the same. Eventually, the pages stopped changing, until I shamefully obliterated my past attempts, reversed the publication process. Now they are private again, except for traces which might last in former friends’ memories.