I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I said: I must remember this, being small.

But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

I think I made you up inside my head.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.