They seem to have disowned me. They refuse to formulate in a linear, sequential form. I can sense them all around me, within me. At the end of his street, on the other side of the mirror, beneath the burden of sanity, caught among the forced intimacy of a routine, in two-minute thrills and over those simple pleasures of innocuous events. I think that stringing them together, filtering them, sifting through them would make it all comprehensible. Though, it isn't incomprehensible, now or ever. Then why this urge? Why this itch to make my life seem lyrical on a page? Why this faint disappointment that words don't flow out of my veins? Why this need to let them come pirouetting out of my unclenched fists? Instead I do no justice to myself. It seems not me who felt this...

"This is a paragraph. A paragraph is a sonnet in prose. A paragraph begins where it ends. A paragraph may contain a single word or cruise for pages. Good writing rids itself of style, sanctifies no grammar, is silent more than it speaks. Most writing is bad because the writer never sits down to think until he sits down to write. Most writing is dishonest because the writer doesn't believe what he writes but is honestly trying to find out. Most writing is at the expense of the reader, a kindly fellow who would like to believe you."

Karl Shapiro, The Bourgeois Poet