Matter-of-fact descriptions make the improbable seem real.
Lonely people keep up a ceaseless flow of commentary on themselves.
The unhappy are prisoners of a single round of thought.
Truth-telling frightens me. Lying confuses me.
Grandiosity lessens as work proceeds.
In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.