That beautiful mind! That was the thing. Lucid, passionate, independent, acute, proudly and incessantly nourished, eccentric for honorable reasons, sensitive for every reason, it has marked us forever. Allow it its blind spots, for it could detect pure gold. It could detect contradictory purity. In the presence of poetic fire it sent out shower of sparks on its own. It was a mind like some marvelous enchanter’s instrument.

To think that we have at our disposal the biggest thing in the universe, and that it is language. What one can do with language is … infinite… This may be why so many people do not write: because it’s terrifying. And conversely, it is what makes certain people write: because it’s intoxicating.

I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for you to love me. 
If this isn’t a kingdom, then I don’t know what is. 
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter’s heart,
the hunter’s mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.

great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.

good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
become immortal.
if you read this after I am dead
it means I made it.