Modern medicine made unprecedented progress. Brand new illnesses poised for the anticipated pounce, some had mutated to life on their own accord, others were developed for tactical purposes, but quite a few cued among them were well-tried old syndromes that had hardly been considered illnesses in their own right. One of these was Mental Immune Deficiency, formerly referred to as love.
A poet has no private life to speak of. He uses his feelings, which then, like acids, release meanings from his own and from others’ bodies, filtering out the essential materials from which he creates his poems, volatile non-existent objects. And then from all of that, something that reminds one of life.