when is it over? how to know when it’s time to quit? if it is words that you work with, what happens? do they wash away like sandy etchings on the insatiable surf or abandon the aging writer and run off with the Life that was given them and music; do the inky notes fly in mad disarray panicking like bats trapped in the campanile as the Sun drowns the dusk with its molten amber Every race to the death is littered with the corpses of artists that out- lived their time with poets who could only rhyme and painters who could not paint blind and musicians mute as stone
Posted on: Wed, 23 Jul 2014 18:40:40 +0000
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