Lines from Keats & Yeats, Bukowski & Berryman (do the two pairs share any analogies?) are floating in my head. It is the sort of day where I feel like taking a leaf out of one of their books; namely, shutting the blinds and reading from all of their books, committing to memory everything that possesses that intangible beauty that is synonymous with the form. What makes these brief arrangements of words (rhyming or not) so addictive, I'll never know. I would like to say it help me understands life, but one can never be sure. I can certainly say it makes the journey far more bearable - it is almost as if the mere act of reading a powerful line gives one access to a secret incantation, known only to a few, one which can be used in times of duress to keep at bay the ever-present madness that beckons, and to guide our feet away from the void that surrounds.