(The great magic comes over me. The late-night, grows-in-silence, paints-in-words magic that gave me every purpose, created every guiding light, the impossible magic that delights and astounds me, that tortures me in its absence, returns. I sit silently at the word processor and watch the letters turn into sentences into entire worlds under my fingertips. Sometimes I forget what it is to be moved by the word and think I have been abandoned entirely, that this madness was only youthful conceit at last to be washed away by wisdom and sense, but oh, it is not so.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently.
May we never be so old,
that we cannot hear our own soul
when it speaks to us.)
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