1., pt. 1 Frost said: every poem begins with a lump in the throat. I should know it - they write it all over tumblr and I tumblr a lot. Like every other self-despising poet, i pay a lot attention to the important task of dismantling and doubting my own work. So here's my only certainty: you're not a lump, but the whole damn Himalaya in my roaring lungs and I am unable to write just one single good love poem to your honour; I'm sorry. I fear there is nothing exquisite in being loved by a bad writer whose heart is far too big for her own good. I'd need a thousand throats for all the lovely lumps I want to write about. 5. I keep telling myself that it just takes time, that one day I'll weave the most beautiful cobweb of letters - letters made of shining copper and love and all that is golden - letters which will change people for the better, tear their defenses down and become part of their stories. but it won't seem to happen anytime soon, so I think of Van Gogh and hope for the best. 1., pt. 2. Robert taught me many things one needs to know. what does it bother me if millions learnt the same? it is of utter importance to accept that uniqueness is a lie. I warmly welcome him on tumblr: Hello old friend, take a seat make yourself comfortable, find your niche. He shrugs it off and asks: Are you still writing nonsense about me instead of working on that stupid love poem of yours?