Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. You don’t write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying in the road. Because for the poet, the world is word. Words. Not that precisely. Precisely: the world and words fuck each other. Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly — they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced. Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words. Even if the road to hell is paved with adverbs I will find the right words one day, and they will be simple. I will write what should not be forgotten.