Got tight on absinthe last night. Did knife tricks.
As long as you can start, you are all right. The juice will come.
The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire, Resound through dying coals of a campfire.
The further you go in writing the more alone you are.
Read anything I write for the pleasure of reading it. Whatever else you find will be the measure of what you brought to the reading.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.