(Martha Holmes)

I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn't let me.

Bukowski.

(Modern Hepburn)

Scatter these well-meant idioms

Into the smoky spring that fills

The suburbs, where they will be lost.

They are no trophies of the sun.

Hart Crane, "Praise for an Urn."

(The Clothes Horse)

When I told the resident genius 
that given the choice between writing and being 
happy, I'd pick the latter, she touched my folio

with her pencil like a bad fairy's wand,
saying: Don't worry, you don't have that choice.

Mary Karr, "The Choice."