I sip the teas of prose and guzzle electrolytes of poems. I proselytize by the Shamanism of my native tongue; my inner, transcendent, mystical language. The dancing wick is never doused, sickly as it shivers. Inspiration hides itself, imagination rebels, creativity is inured. Recurrent chapters of stimulative destitution trigger the hunt. I attempt to thwart, weather the twilight, stumble upon a rebirth … I will leap up anew, refreshed! I was so hollow I found myself; so passionless I discovered the seashore once more. I must behave gentlemanly, not overindulging, not devouring Beauty! I will master this complication, sampling her prudently, nearly petrified! My nourishment is the blooming artistic life, incompatible with a garden grown dark. I necessitate joy won back, zeal sustained, an eternal intake of what is beauteous. I eat the writings of like-minded authors and drink from the jug of my salvific field of vision. I pay my visits to Nature with a rapacious purpose, to exploit, condense, and savor.