The spirit world doesn't admit to communicating with me, so it's fairly even.

I've thought of the last line of some poems for years and tried them out, It wouldn't work because the last line was much too beautiful for the poem.

Nothing in the universe can travel at the speed of light, they say, forgetful of the shadow's speed.

I am not at all clear what free verse is anymore. That's one of the things you learn not to know.

I do insist on making what I hope is sense so there's always a coherent narrative or argument that the reader can follow.

I have a plot, but not much happens.

The only way out is the way through, just as you cannot escape death except by dying. Being unable to write, you must examine in writing this being unable, which becomes for the present -henceforth?- the subject to which you are condemned.