Possibly the artist (that would be you) blacked out the lines; possibly the book's original owner did. We can't know which, and I like it that way. What emerges, of course, is a found haiku of sorts. As if the words remaining visible had emerged from their old skin, their old cocoon. These are the hardy, strong, significant words; those obliterated were the weak, sick ones. The poetic herd has been thinned by the Sharpie-weilding predator. The herd will be stronger hereafter.