Apologies aren't something you want to get in the habit of practicing in the mirror
There's something about the rhythms of language that correspond to the rhythms of our own bodies.
How often had that hydrant even been opened? Did you jet water through a car window, what, twice at best? Summer burned just a few afternoons long, in the end. As for flying, Dose never even glanced at the sky. Flying was a summer within a summer, a whim. So why think of it at all?
Nature, or at least birds and women, abhorred the invisible man.
I'm a firm believer that there are no rules in art. Every trajectory is different.
Once you fall into habits, I think, you're dead as an artist. You have to challenge yourself and never rest on your laurels, never think about what you've done in the past.