Always there seems something ahead, the next poem or story, visible, at least, apprehensible, but unreachable. To perceive it at all is to be haunted by it; some sound, some tone, becomes a torment--the poem embodying that sound seems to exist somewhere already finished. It’s like a lighthouse, except that, as one swims towards it, it backs away.
as one swims toward it, it backs away... kind of like the old adages about happiness being something you can't pursue but only allow to find you... nice, and sad, too. Sometimes we try to hard!
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