Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

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

Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy & peaceful.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.