“Other times I feel like art is a nervous tic. Like someone left a window open in me, and a demon comes through the window sometimes and sits on the back of my neck and tells me that I need to be doing something that I’m not doing, gives me ideas for what I should do next, and makes me stressed about the resources and time it will take for me to complete this task, not to mention what I will do with it after, or who, if anyone, the demon wants me to try to impress. Poetry is almost never a friendly demon, meaning it never wants to just invite me over to eat fruit in its yard. It wants me to do something, or I want it to do something. We are not simply chilling together, letting each other exist, despite what the old books would have me believe.”