That's All We Have, Finally, The Words,

Every Great Or Even Every Very Good Writer Makes The World Over According To His Own Specifications.

But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.

I Dressed And Went For A Walk - Determined Not To Return Until I Took In What Nature Had To Offer.

Art Doesn't Have To Do Anything. It Just Has To Be There For The Fierce Pleasure We Take In Doing It.

That Morning She Pours Teacher's Over My Belly And Licks It Off. That Afternoon She Tries To Jump Out The Window.