I write from nothing; let the words fall on
the page from nowhere. This is what we have
to do: to write without ideas, meaning,
or subject matter. Life is bloody stupid.
We live it. Why? Because we have to live it.
The flow of water interrupted when
the tap turns off. We live our lives and then,
when old age has rolled on our rusted chains,
we find that all we do is ask ourselves,
‘What happened there? Was that a life?’ It was.
Today is not a day for writing poems.
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