Come home. Take off all of my clothes. Pour myself a beer. Boil water for pasta. Pour water for paints. For plants. Put on falling-apart sweater. Spike beer with gin. Dance. Call you. Tell you I’m too busy being his princess to be your nightmare. Untwist the fingers behind my back. Sit. Don’t cry. Show my walls the smile they love. Drink. Sigh.
"I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center."
- Margaret Atwood, from “Variation on the Word Sleep” in Selected Poems II: 1976-1986 (Houghton Mifflin, 1987)
"Write, write as much as possible”—he would say to young novelists. “It does not matter if it does not come off. Later on it will come off. The chief thing is, do not waste your youth and elasticity. It’s now the time for working. See, you write superbly, but your vocabulary is small. You must acquire words and turns of speech, and for this you must write every day."
Alexander Kuprin, “To Chekhov’s Memory”