——It is true that you slavishly work on these ideas, which begin so inauspiciously and yet quickly assume a shape and the promise of wide influence and a great future for you and all around you. In time, you amplify these ideas, surround them with images and storylines, write them up just for the sake of flowing sentences that, with a mind of their own, make to corral and contain, mold and yet preserve, as if keeping your own identity safe from misunderstanding. And now the inevitable pressure builds, as to the actual meaning and worldly use of these ideas, as expressed. But somehow, for you, there is a personal indifference as to their fate, this just insofar as you have achieved their most powerful articulation.  The author knows this tension can never be resolved, for it reflects a deeper split. For he is always either totally at work, or he is indolent, out of ideas entirely, in a state of nervous bliss. It is the former where he gets his thoughts, and the latter where he sees the world, and understands that his place is standing there just on the edge, looking deep within and at the same moment at a far horizon.
——It is a traceable result of being so constantly inspired, and yet strangely unfulfilled. There is a question always on deck, a distant prospect shared by others, and so great does an interior pressure build, that stored up happiness of your own–your wide, indifferent longing–that it surely affects the talking expressions, the very framing of the personal ideas that have arrived in thought, as if from far away. From afar and deep within has been the constant assault . . .  and insofar as these expressions were meant for the world the question remains of their ultimate use. Today and in the future, and in the shifting platform of the past. But am I the true herald of this realm, each person secretly asks? Do I even really live here? Has it ever been my deep project, or my interior concern, my slightest responsibility, to speak importantly to others? Was I meant to flaunt this cavalier personality, in the untameable world?
——So, one might have dallied in their midst, stood looking out, and construed a type of audience; but how poverty-stricken will it turn out are his finely tuned, and infinitely stretched out phrases–? And how daunting, unending, for all of us, when so often it seems reality itself, and the very terms of life and death are still, dare a writer say it?, malleable, like still under construction!