Billy Collins Quote

My favorite time to write is in the late afternoon,weekdays, particularly Wednesday. This is how I go about it:I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pileas if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of onlya white shirt, a pair of pants, and a pot of cold tea. Then I remove my flesh and hand it over a chair.I slide if off my bones like a silken garment. I do this so that what I write will be pure, Completely rinsed of the carnal,uncontaminated by the preoccupations of the body. Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange themOn a small table near the window.I do not want to hear their ancient rhythmswhen I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter. I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.I find it difficult to ignore the temptation.Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.In this condition I write extraordinary love poemsmost of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.I am concentration itself: I exist in a universewhere there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.After a spell of this I remove my penis too.Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.Now I write only about death, most classical of themesin language light as the air between my ribs.Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.I replace my organs and slip back into my fleshand clothes. Then I back the car out of the garageand speed through woods on winding country roads,

Billy Collins

My favorite time to write is in the late afternoon,weekdays, particularly Wednesday. This is how I go about it:I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pileas if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of onlya white shirt, a pair of pants, and a pot of cold tea. Then I remove my flesh and hand it over a chair.I slide if off my bones like a silken garment. I do this so that what I write will be pure, Completely rinsed of the carnal,uncontaminated by the preoccupations of the body. Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange themOn a small table near the window.I do not want to hear their ancient rhythmswhen I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter. I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.I find it difficult to ignore the temptation.Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.In this condition I write extraordinary love poemsmost of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.I am concentration itself: I exist in a universewhere there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.After a spell of this I remove my penis too.Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.Now I write only about death, most classical of themesin language light as the air between my ribs.Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.I replace my organs and slip back into my fleshand clothes. Then I back the car out of the garageand speed through woods on winding country roads,

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