pocket worn by one who is not brilliant but who houses many like me. While I was in his pocket, I dwelt where this College once dwelt, where this building once lived, where this campus was once housed. I saw signs that said, "Books once lived here," like BLUE DENIM AND LACE, HOW TO REAR CHILDREN, MEET THE HOLY SPIRIT and PLEASE PARDON MY POETRY.

I am an idea. Probably you did not hear me knock; I knock so softly that you did not hear me. I DO knock all day just in case you come to the door of meditation or to the window of thought and study. I did not force my way in, for those who are too busy to greet me are too busy to use me.

It would not have taken long; just let me be on a three-by-five card and forget me. I will stay there until you call, but I WILL NOT stay in your memory.

I am an idea. I wanted you; I needed you. I will soon die for lack of my natural habitat, and the world will never know me because of you, and to think that I did not ask to dwell 'neath a Hart, Shaffner, Marx, but just on a three-by-five card near your heart.

I am an idea. Now I am dying. I will soon be carried to a grave of uselessness by pallbearers of neglect. My grave will never be visited, for none knew me. I sigh for those who could have been known by millions if you could have taken thirty seconds and used an old pen and put me on any old three-by-five card. Millions could have met me and I could have had eternal life, but I was kept from the world... by you.