You pick and chose yourself- I know you do it, I can tell.
Privately, you ought, I think, be original. Fine, yet flawed. Some slightly vague organic thing- great, essentially, but green, raw, uncertain. Messy. Young blood that’s mislaid its pretensions, and squirms, graceless,
turning, tricked, dark, damp, dirt and everything.*
I'm watching this cord, outside, flick a shadow on the windowsill. It may be a telephone line, I'm not sure. There's this little square patch of sunlight, and a grey line running back, and forth, across it. Faintly, humble, a metronome- back, forth,
I don't think anyone planned that.