Something that's never left me.

I am moved by fancies that are curled/ Around these images, and cling:/ The notion of some infinitely gentle/ Infinitely suffering thing. - T. S. Eliot, 'Preludes' (I tried to illustrate this poem for a class once and they told me my art wasn't sorrowful enough. I suppose that is why I am also a writer. I make art when I'm at peace and I write when I am feeling deeply. Sometimes I'd like for it to all just mix together, but I think it comes naturally to me this way and so I will let it be. I'm grateful for all events and emotions that cause me to write or make art.) Anais Nin and a man named Rupert and a dog. I feel like I should know who Rupert was to her, but I am too in love with the idea of she and Henry. Someday I will investigate the Rupert.