The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination. The first word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain. The process of putting down words is equivelent to giving oneself a narcotic.
-Henry Miller
And who by fire, who by water,
who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of may,
who by very slow decay,
and who shall I say is calling?
And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
and who by avalanche, who by powder,
who for his greed, who for his hunger,
and who shall I say is calling?
-Leonard Cohen
I am happy, what need have I to write? I don't want to channel the world's pain, I want to play the fiddle on the rooftops while Rome burns. I could express any number of the simple truths I have leaned in my short life, express my trials, pains, rosy crucifictions, but who would listen? I want to live and for me that is enough.
expecting whenever they ship my baby frog! no humans for me!