If I Rest, If I Think Inward,

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.

I Buried My Head Under The Darkness Of The Pillow And Pretended It Was Night. I Couldn't See The Point Of Getting Up. I Had Nothing To Look Forward To.

When They Asked Me What I Wanted To Be I Said I Didn't Know.

Perhaps You Considered Yourself An Oracle, Mouthpiece Of The Dead, Or Of Some God Or Other. Thirty Years Now I Have Labored To Dredge The Silt From Your Throat. I Am None The Wiser.

We Stayed At Home To Write, To Consolidate Our Outstretched Selves.