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,
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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