There is something that unsettles me. I cannot crack it, though I keep trying. I get a kind of déjà vu that is bound up with the master. I take a step forward — with the writing, with my thinking, with any movement I consider positive — and I feel that he predicted it. That he told me about it. That it was planned. I know he never said any such thing. I know it is swarming in my head. But it swarms.
I had this before that world, in my youth. I would write a poem and feel that someone had written it before me — that I had read it somewhere and
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