Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.