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Today I went scampering off in the rain to look for a room of my own. I can picture waking up there, a place that is not here, not a corner of this room or a corner of this mind -- not cobwebby or cluttered, but a cherished space.

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The more I think about it, the more I realize how the poetry I've come across seems to be representing such extreme expressions. It can't be mild after all; there's no middle ground, there's no warm and cool, is there? The poems aren't always intensely serious, in fact some are intensely funny or intensely sarcastic, but intense they are.

I wonder what this does to a poet's mind. Does he never wish to turn this intensity off, this constant buzz in his mind, this constant ache, this constant high? Does this have something to say about the intrinsic nature of the poet?

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So many people I meet are so intelligent. Then they stun me with their lack of compassion. Makes me want to re-evaluate the whole concept of intelligence. How can someone alert and aware, by that very nature, lack the sensitivity to be compassionate? It seems like such a contradiction.

More than anything I am ashamed of my own lack of compassion. Makes me want to re-evaluate my own evaluation of these stunning people.