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I'm terrified of something... That I'll do it wrong, that I'll ask too much of them, that they'll think I'm disgusting, that they'll ask too much of me and then hate me when I can't give them what they want, that they'll force me to be what they want, that they'll use me up and then leave me when I have nothing left...
Whoa... Wasn't expecting that...
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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