That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster.

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.

He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The wolf is living for the earth.

What happened casually remains -

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.