they're right: maybe it's been too easy just writing about myself and
horses and drinking, but then I'm not trying to prove anything, taking
long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female
remains, I find that I needn't always be on the lookout for new conquests.
riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a
problem for other men. I am often satisfied just being alone. I now find
people more amusing than disgusting (am I weakening?) and although
I still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me.
readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just
holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability
not to care—at times—as our society erupts and struggles does not mean
that I am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds,
being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on
schedule? I don't know and I don't seek an answer-just a small quiet
space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out.
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