Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got

How Far We All Come. How Far We All Come Away From Ourselves. So Far, So Much Between, You Can Never Go Home Again. You Can Go Home, It's Good To Go Home, But You Never Really Get All The Way Home Again In Your Life. ... Whatever It Was And However Good It Was, It Wasn't What You Once Had Been, And Had Lost, And Could Never Have Again, And Once In A While, Once In A Long Time, You Remembered, And Knew How Far You Were Away, And It Hit You Hard Enough, That Little While It Lasted, To Break Your Heart.

It Is The Middle And Pure Height And Whole Of Summer And A Summer Night, The Held Breath, Of A Planet's Year; High Shored Sleeps The Crested Tide: What Day Of The Month I Do Not Know, Which Day Of The Week I Am Not Sure, Far Less What Hour Of The Night.

I Suspect The Fault...is In Me: That I Hate Any Job On Earth, As A Job And A Hindrance And A Semi-suicide.

I'll Do What Little I Can In Writing. Only It Will Be Very Little. I'm Not Capable Of It; And If I Were, You Would Not Go Near It At All. For If You Did, You Would Hardly Bear To Live

Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got To Have Gumption.