Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.
If you can't write the next line, well, you're dead. The past doesn't matter.
Joan of Arc had style. Jesus had style.
Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
To experience real agony is something hard to write about, impossible to understand while it grips you; you're frightened out of your wits, canโt sit still, move, or even go decently insane.