I fear I may be sick (run with an understated start position). I was carefully not to eat to much but made the mistake of picking the carcass and remains of the trimmings late at night. I really don’t feel myself, angry sounds coming from my gut.

I managed to kill John Donne, ended up not caring about the poem, the stupid question returned, what is the worm? Then consumed utterly by self, and the answer I already knew. I don’t care what the original intention was I can run with this, alter transform. It is of no matter or consequence, as long as it works in the moment.

Momentary comfort, then guilt and a sense of greed. What is important here, what has to live other than the poem? Nothing. I think I can eradicate Donne, I get the sense at this point I can eradicate myself.

What am I left with? Beyond Donne, beyond myself, yet behind the words of the verse that allow  it to live.

Whats the common property that lies beyond these three things?

That provokes a horrifying question, when all else is removed and eradicated.

Is that all art is, this small cold calculating thing?

I fear I may be sick. I can’t be sure. I’m I still at the selfish, stage of the processes, uncaring, filled with only an internal world that will spill out and into words propelling the verse and bubbling with in its form and structure?

No. I can grasp what lies behind the words of the verse and what will give it shape and form.

Is that all this art is? This small, cold, detached, uncaring, unmoved, calculating thing. I fear I may be sick. I know with certainty at least my conclusion is somewhat understated.

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