  Im supposed to be studying, but all I want to do I dress in black in wait for the rain and write poetry. Drinking tea and contemplating Howl having listened to it again today. Will the class want to listen to all 20 minutes of it being read aloud? Such despair and sacrifice (Moloch) and disillusionment and feverish poetic ecstasy. I almost dont want to share it in case someone doesnt like it.
I dont want it messed up by the critiques of others. If only I could put down in words the depth of experience of that poem. I have a goal. This is good. Tomorrow is poetry day. First in Haytons class where I submit my own poem, then to Susies class where I feast on poetry of others.
A diet of words too powerful for the page they must be spoken, vibrate with sounds meant to go with them. Back to the studying. Little bits all day and I should be alright tomorrow. At least I feel inspired about something today. My passions returning to me after being slapped back a few feet. Im cursed and blessed. I get to feel it all, and all of it to the core. Kerri doesnt know what she gave up. Doesnt even know. 
