when i feel my passion flickering at the end of the wick and my inspiration running like sand out of my fingers, i think of poets. i think of men who burned paper in wastebaskets and ate out of tins, who never settled in one place and always found a new city to enchant. i think of men with ink stained hands and old eyes and i think, dear lord, what a wonderful life to have such a truth to write you could not contain it and to live a life until every ounce of your soul had drained out onto paper.
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