Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.

I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.

I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.

You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.