I am writing again. A real poem is rising from my fingers--though real does not mean good. I can't think about good now. It's too dangerous. Thinking about good will kill real.

But I will give you one line that is making me happy.  

We felt the smallness of our lives: we hid nothing within us.

The poem is about noise and silence: it is cluttered with physical detail, yet this line is not physical. It came to me in the midst of the noise around it, and there it sits--a necessary breath, at least in the writing. I will not think about good, but the line is real.