2003-07-08 / 3:24 p.m.

Reading the Sexton bio, right now, is weird for me. Not in her life, but in her cycles as a poet, I see paralles all over the place. The way her styles evolved and why and the way she recognized the changes as they happened; the way different people's presence in her life, reation to her work, and words affected her writing. It's kind of... well, it's bizarre. I didn't realize that she didn't start writing until she was 29. I can't imagine that.

All I've done the past few days is write and read. So much poetry and writers' history in my head I don't have room for anything else.

I'm not getting letters from my muse... I depended too much on him to pull things out of me, and I think he saw that, and I think he's telling me that's bad by cutting me off. If so, well, he's right. I can't depend on other people to hand me inspiration. It's there, it's always there; I don't look hard enough, don't have enough patience. I'm learning.

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