Node Volley, Round 2: all words go somewhere and nothing is ever lost

A page can only call so loud
Whether yelp or moan or shout
Encoded in the strokes allowed
By the artist's own self-doubt.

A page is just a yearning
For that which can't exist,
A place for which returning
Is like resuming an old kiss.

That's not for me. I pass.
Seems much like doing sorcery.
I'd rather hold a masterclass:
HOWTO: Commit Stylistic Forgery


Node Volley, Round 4: I want someone to read between my lines

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