Poor health, but especially, nerves, seems to be the common complaint of artists and poets, and was probably the cause of excessive drinking and poor relationships. Nerves get in the way of everything, except creation. When the heavy, meditative consciousness of self is lifted, the fanciful nervous temperament is unfettered. The mind, unorganized, without the self-criticism or hesitation, with no conscious purpose as to outcome or intended audience, pours words like sweet honey, unbidden, unasked, easily and perfect. I can do nothing else well, my mind seems fuzzy, unclear, and yet it is just this state which seems to open the tunnel of inspired vision; I am a receptacle for the divine experience. I can see, hear, feel more acutely; I can read, absorb, and learn brilliantly, and with this restless energy I can write or paint fluidly, like water pouring over the damn of reason, until with its strength it gives way alltogether…..