"And for a moment, I understand that I have friends on this lonely path; that sometimes your place is not something you find, but something you have when you need it."

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Oh, Black known and unknown poets, how often have your auctioned pains sustained us? Who will compute the lonely nights made less lonely by your songs, or by the empty pots made less tragic by your tales? If we were a people much given to revealing secrets, we might raise monuments and sacrifice to the memories of our poets, but slavery cured us of that weakness.

— Maya Angelou