“The world is wide,” I thought; then, feebly, “The world is whole.” These thoughts did not begin as words, of course – what we feel as we walk down or up the hill to meet our lovers after work, smelling the end of winter, cannot be contained within inverted commas. But my fidgeting mind cannot feel without making those feelings signify; cannot sense without translating that sense into words. Does being a writer mean not living in the actual world, or are my real experiences uncaptured, forgotten, free, original, raw, loose, wild, so intangible the word “intangible” makes them too tangible?