” …Imagine if you will, the poet in her nest. It would be a candlelit room of stone walls, where a jumble of books and a confusion of pages litter the surfaces of groaning tables. The air would be caressed by the sound of rustling wings from the birds in the rafters, and the smoky sound of an old record player drifting up from a dark corner. I would sit at a large black desk littered with wine stains and greasy fingerprints, smearing ink on my face when I rub my temples in thought. I would wear a black silk smoking jacket with tails, and a top hat. A large tiger would lounge at my feet.
The view from my window would be all of creation, and I would gaze at it in an agony of frustration, trying in vain to encompass it on the page, to illustrate epiphany to a mind that had never felt the wind. Ahh, to be a poet…”