Tragedy.

My touch shifts against worn edifice,
calluses on fingers ground to new skin by old stone,
pages turn backwards, a glimpse at the binding.
Sensual, cool, rugose and dark.

My touch parts venerable silt from ancient surface,
as did all the touches from before, my hand,
is the same hand that sculpted and buried this:
A callus remembers where a head forgets.

I uncover that I might one day remember forgetting,
I dive deep in the river where others float,
I steal time from the clutch of Death,
but only for so long.

Contact Nintendo as well. They should be able to lock your account and make sure you can get access to all of your old digital content (if you had any) if you get a new system.

Who knows! We're so far removed from where it was donated by the time things get to us.

You've got a nice style. Looks great!

Are you going to make labels for your beer?