No More Rhymes Now I

I Have Stayed These Years In My Hovel Because Of You. I Have Taught Myself Languages Because Of You. I Have Made My Body Strong Because I Thought You Might Be Pleased By A Strong Body. I Have Lived My Life With Only The Prayer That Some Sudden Dawn You Might Glance In My Direction. I Have Not Known A Moment In Years When The Sight Of You Did Not Send My Heart Careening Against My Rib Cage. I Have Not Known A Night When Your Visage Did Not Accompany Me To Sleep. There Has Not Been A Morning When You Did Not Flutter Behind My Waking Eyelids.

You Can Never Trust What You Read.

Anybody That Says Different Is Selling Something.

No. Not Yet. A Craftsman Only. But I Dream To Be An Artist. I Pray That Someday, If I Work With Enough Care, If I Am Very Very Lucky, I Will Make A Weapon That Is A Work Of Art. Call Me An Artist Then, And I Will Answer.

Writing Is Finally About One Thing: Going Into A Room Alone And Doing It. Putting Words On Paper That Have Never Been There In Quite That Way Before. And Although You Are Physically By Yourself, The Haunting Demon Never Leaves You, That Demon Being The Knowledge Of Your Own Terrible Limitations, Your Hopeless Inadequacy, The Impossibility Of Ever Getting It Right. No Matter How Diamond-bright Your Ideas Are Dancing In Your Brain, On Paper They Are Earthbound.