Pencil and paper, pen in ink, the keyboard beacons, tells me to write, write! Even if you cover the whole page and the challenge remains to find a line or three to turn those lines into a turn of phrase, or to alliterate. I try to find rhythmic threads that wax and wane. Bringing other worlds to mind, other ways to use the word design. The fingers striking the keys, or my muse be gone and nothing comes with ease, you find faces on the page and give them hair and a neck line that brings to mind a broken person met on a street corner which hurls you into a time and space of mind that turns one's attention to the stars and the planets, this leading to thoughts of William Blake, the one that you had so much trouble reading which was close to causing hallucinogens to take you to the hidden recesses of the mind. No, never could I capture the images of the words of Blake if called into question. His artwork points to an imagination so obscure so dark, so close to perfect it takes time to see an imperfection that just must be there, it has to be considering most great artists leave an imperfection. Perhaps so they can feel a greater more loving view of the worlds they have experience in where everything is imperfect.