If you don’t want the gods to spit freezing rain in your face.
The Center Cannot Hold Never write There is no real winter -- what gods persist. will smite you with their slick facsimile: now a gluey rain that by night will turn bitter, coat your budding world bit by reaching bit in frigid and pedestrian pain ... Pathetic fallacy. Poetic shit. Seasonal affective disorder, happy switch click. Boring, the usual despair. Don’t explain. At the polls again, splintered from neighbors by invisible walls thrown up in back rooms, contain this thick sinking. Just use it to fill in all the proper dots. Circle it into those button slits in the white fabric of human shame.
