And even in times of surrounded solitude there seems to be an inapt attraction for personal poetry - watch as the poet fraud sits in a crowded and humid room contemplating whether his words will ever take flight from his notebook and grace the hoodwinked eyes of mass conformity. Years have passed - knowledge has grown through experience and a hunger to honor in following the poets - the dead poets of a past seemingly forgotten. He sits - restless as his blood boils - his eyes scarred with poems of moments lived and with each blink he erases and begins again - scribbling madness only for the self-indulgent joy of writing. For when he writes, he fades into the very page. Lost.
-YB?
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