“Once in a while, though, he went on binges. He would sneak into
bookstores or libraries, lurk around the racks where the little
magazines were kept; sometimes he'd buy one. Dead poets were his
business, living ones his vice. Much of the stuff he read was crap and
he knew it; still, it gave him an odd lift.
"Then there would be the
occasional real poem, and he would catch his breath. Nothing else could
drop him through space like that, then catch him; nothing else could
peel him open.”
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