Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know
Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.
What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.