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“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

COMMENT It is rather cliche perhaps to summon these words from Dylan Thomas’ iconic piece, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.

But no words I can muster on my own mirror the whimpers now echoing inside my heart, more effectively than the ones crafted by the rather eloquent Welsh poet.

For therein is a cavity long in the making, an empty space created anew with every piece of my heart that dies, as if with every jilting by past lovers.

But perhaps in this context, it is the hollow that follows every departure of portals and publications past, journalists present, and the future fears that such development creates.

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