And that'll do it. Your opinion raised hounds in me
Though I lowered their watery voices deep,
Like a door click for which there is no dream.
I can see through these windows fortunes away from us,
Our projects taking over from the front lawn.
I stopped by. Maybe I invented you,
But you are pleased, and committed, and in your letters there are
Quick notes and songs so dressed I strain
To let them transpire. Senses, you do more with less
And forbidden, you want no part of what's
Streaming by, although on these rocks it appears
As only the general store and the eddies that rely
On an eye for vortices hold hands for days.
The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.
-- Gustave Flaubert
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