To be a writer is to sit down at one's desk in the chill portion of every day, and to write; not waiting for the little jet of the blue flame of genius to start from the breastbone - just plain going at it, in pain and delight. To be a writer is to throw away a great deal, not to be satisfied, to type again, and then again, and once more, and over and over ....
— John Hersey, born on around date in 1914 Brilliance Into Cold Darkness
All day I have been rearranging my body
anything behind. I drag all memories
after, a kite’s tail in a blue-grey sky.
I once played, had my first kiss. There
is the young girl I taught to be cruel when
I was so cruel to her. I sigh. She laughs.
a small house frozen in that one moment
when you think nobody is looking. They
argue about everything, forever.
for kindness, nothing is enough. Nothing
except sorrow. The sorrow of hearts spills
into all souls. Nowhere else to keep it.
Phoenix by Jane Rosenberg LaForge
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