What to invent? Is it a language devoid of sense? A Man Ray painting in words, highlighting all the white spaces? Will language alone serve to entertain and to instruct, to satisfy Horace or the masses? Notitiam finis aut delectare poetae. Or do we continue down this path of poetry as psychotherapy? Flaunting our wounds, our scars, our insatiable drive for ego gratification? How often I long for the perfect sunrise, the flawless reflection of beauty in an autumn sunset, a woman’s flesh. What will we do when all the grants run out, when the taxpayers require a return on their investments?
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