It happened again. Well over 60% of the last eight hours belonged to me and what I might make from this internet connection. Fantasies of what I want to write next and to whom and where to, roiling about between concept …

The so-called poet with his vague dreams and ideals is indeed no better than a harmless lunatic; the true poet is the worker, who grips life's throat and wrings out its secret, who selects auterely and composes concisely…