When you decide to begin, there are a few things you will need:
Paper is essential. Batteries die and screens freeze, but paper is eternal — to a point. Everything can be typed up later — this is your immortality after all.
Turn off your cell phone. Don’t just put it on vibrate, for the blinking light of texts to check will disturb your reverie. Turn if off — or at the very least, leave it in the next room.
You will need a place to write, a ritual — a cluttered desk or a coffee shop or a particular seat on the bus, by the window; whichever you prefer.
You must have a vice: choose coffee or wine, cigarettes or purchasing nostalgic knick-knacks. Flaws are the stuff of poets, fabricated or otherwise.
And one last thing: tethered to your heart, a thread of humanity, drawing you down to despair, tugging you upward to glory, to the ecstasy of self-awareness.
Draw this string taut, wax your bow carefully.
These are the instruments of poetry.