Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.
The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.
Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.