would wander the streets alone at 2 or 3 A.M., then return to my dorm and write poetry, with titles such as “A Blurred Vision,” “The Artist’s Flaw,” “The Life of a Man,” and “The Stranger You Love to Meet.” So yeah, it was pretty bleak. And that was before I wrote a poem called “Shall I Flee Her Gripping Curse?” (Holy shit.)
