And then we raised our heads. He was there. A diversion. A new friend. An inspiration too.
A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity—he is continually in for—and filling some other Body—The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute—the poet has none;
and. we had the impression of a crumbling society, that is still dancing – facing a catastrophe – a war, an iceberg, a flood, an epidemic, something like this, and they were still celebrating, having fancy dinner in fancy clothes deliberately ignoring the fact that they are totally doomed and
scratching the wounds open – then letting go. holding hands with a new sister trying to become quiet – and then: don’t apologize for being free.
