Refuse are the unimaginable reaches of writing, rejected, remaindered, ragged. Anthologies would retrieve the riches of writing. Yet random their results to real readers, raging as they are, rare, religious, remarkable in their own experience. Righted with vocabulary, rushing humans metamorphose into writers, returning returning to the ruled line. Writing , rip-roaring one day, may look rubbish the next, and vice versa. Readers, even romantics or rigorists, are practical in this regard. Rummage is relative. Ambiguous are the rewards, an A can look like an R. It’s rarely why humans write, living anyway with voids to fill, rooms to realise.