Thou'rt a poet, crazed with finding words May stick to things and seem like qualities. No pebble is a pebble in thy hands: 'T is a moon out of work, a barren egg, Or twenty things that no man sees but thee.
The acceptance that all that is solid has melted into the air, that reality and morality are not givens but imperfect human constructs, is the point from which fiction begins.
