I remember I’ve made a quick translation of someone’s 'Dread of Fiascoes' way back when
"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep."
So what I must be doing now? Farewell to art? You can't even try to glance at my gesture. I wrote it all across, wish I’d better be writing it deliberately on paper where it might be recognized. What would you do for it? I could guess as much from what you told me about, one that you asked, ‘What could be the meaning of this?’ and felt sorta left out of things. I was overcome with wonder I had to tell you to follow on through the idea I had introduced before. I know it sounds odd it was reaching out in all directions and I can only smile to see how wonderful it can be because the road was too darn tough and dark, would fail you this time. A strange man stood still at your doorstep as if a frenzy walked with him, walked with you walking everywhere away to a few minutes of silence and you would quite feel empty if you can't understand the passages well. Do you understand what I’m saying? Many were the times I wrote it down I’m beginning to believe I was really talking to someone--really talking to myself--from out of whom a traveler would back down and beat it. Perhaps you just misunderstood my sigh of relief. By the time I saw a spider going up the ceiling it gave me
a lift. Eureka! Then I realized it was done and these things just don't matter to you. I was a little embarrased. I could feel the sparks of fire shoot out and suddenly it seemed as if I were a lot of things, still would hope that you knew and understood the private war that was waging in my mind. You could never know just how terrible it might have been for, after all, you might be saying that a dweeb cannot have any recognition
as a poet, who had just come from the leak on the corner and totally unknown. I still had my demon in me enough to talk with as time flickered by without notice like shadows on the wall.