Slurred images sink in that void of unconsciousness;

That daily death that dies at dawn,

And shrinks in fear of the Nine-to-Five pawn.

I listen and I hear from The Collegiate Sage

That if I want a living wage

I must pay to get my name on that page.

But the Sirens sing their song of seduction

So as soon as I wake I enter production,

Chaotically scribbling whirlwinds of diction.

For it appears that I have an imperial affliction

The pursuit of those dreams has become an addiction

Hunting the night – that is, to write.

Despite the blemishes, demarks, and plights,

I know this ambition is impeccably right

and I Will Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.