“Words revolve in flame and keep the coliseum heart afire, reflecting orange sunken suns in the secret petals of ruined arches.  yes, the glowing asbestos thorns and whistling flame flowers reflect the cells of the scarlet heart and the coliseum burns on, without a nero, on the brink of blackness.  so words have power to open sesame and reveal liberal piles of golden metallic suns in the dark pit that wait to be melted and smelted in fire of spring which springs to fuse lumps and clods into veins of radiance.”

I read this and think, “I will never be half the writer she was.”  Actually, I think that a lot when I read brilliant writers’ works.