Thinking of something to write is nothing. Nothing is difficult. Actually, though the words come easily, but the thoughts are often slow or meaningless. Intellect made me say that; I feel the meaning coming through. I feel exorable, yes. But am I exorable? Intellect says I’m strong and willing, giving in to nothing. I am a printed word, which will not change by being read, will not come off the page. I feel a written poem, which is new meaning each time it’s read, lives in those who read it. I am an intellect. I feel a love.

January 1971