Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.
Perhaps this very instant is your time.
At midnight tears Run into your ears.
The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.
Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.
The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.