We Knew Our Days Were Numbered. We

You Have To Have Been In Love To Write Poetry.

In The Beginning, When I Was Trying To Write, I Couldnt Turn Off The Outside World To The Extent That I Can Now.

It's Possible, In A Poem Or Short Story, To Write About Commonplace Things And Objects Using Commonplace But Precise Language, And To Endow Those Things—a Chair, A Window Curtain, A Fork, A Stone, A Woman's Earring—with Immense, Even Startling Power.

This Is Awful. I Don't Know What's Going To Happen To Me Or To Anyone Else In The World.

My Life Is Going To Change. I Feel It.