Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

I have come to recognize a certain kind of full-on insomnia as an aura, as before a headache, of a gestating poem. Which is not to say that these poems spring fully formed, Athena-like, out of the brain. Maybe it is how an oyster feels when the irritant gets under their nacreous skin.  It’s possible that the inability to sleep itself puts me in poetic mode (quarrels have a similar effect, evidently)—that that kind of disturbed, overwrought, stretched-thin consciousness creates the condition whereby the mundane shimmers with significance.