The second second.
Because the poet does not know its make, it just makes for inspiration, as Aristotle said .
They can teach us not to write poetry. Just endless springs from his fingers, his eyes engrossed in shooting details. I remember one time sublime inspiration, unconscious associations of color words and feelings all in one sentence. There was a time in my life in my writing even exceeded my actual experience. Every time I read them I am amazed because they have something to teach, something that previously could not read.
But now ...
Somehow philosophy was or was, for me. Or me for it?
perfect shoe for some reason. But ...
Perhaps it was so loud that my sense of frustration invisible bloke is . Even evades those things. I like them, read them, move me, I love them equally. Just ... nothing comes from me.
I see friends so excited to know things, to ration things, to argue properly to demonstrate that they are right, and that to me and not my attention. I like looking at them, understand them, associate maybe ... but if I have to argue something, defending something, it's hard as ever.
's funny.
I'm something of melancholy.
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