He wrote. Poetry, prose, horse's eggs... All these things he wrote.
Never published, just wrote— without carrying the burden of bondage.
Nothing came of it, yet still he wrote. No obligation to impress or to swallow pride. A free man, and even more— a free writer.
The writer who cares nothing for his own age or eternity never mortgages his mind to anyone at all, not even to himself.
Writing keeps the heart well. His own heart, others' hearts. Even when others' hearts stayed unwell he wrote from the urgency of living.
Money for writing, joy for writing— choosing neither of these two, he wrote because he couldn't bear not to write.
Those who didn't write would say, If we were such woodpeckers, we too could...
Hearing all, understanding all, he said nothing, because he wrote.
He who writes knows how to forgive others' envy. He who writes knows how to accept God's favoritism.
To want to write requires not time or busyness, but knowing how to write; even more necessary— not knowing how to live without writing.
He who has the power, ghosts provide his time. He who lacks it, his excuses... ghosts provide those too!
Victory to the ghosts!