I get this terrible itch. An itch I can only scratch with a pen or a keyboard.

Still, I may have been glad to scratch the dry surface of our day-to-day peaceableness the way Violetta had clawed the sere crust on her limbs, anything to get something bright and liquid flowing again, out in the open and slippery between our fingers.

Love, Life, Art, Religion, Poetry- All these things are subjective. Subjective to our own beautiful minds.

One learns to itch where one can scratch.

Scratch first, itch later.

It is better to write poetry in silence, never to be found, than publish spoiled muck in the hopes of appeasing the tainted populous