The poetry is more real than I am. It brings me into existence.
My lady - who hates me - is wrapped in the mantle of Our Lady, who loves us both.
I will trade my guitar for a hair shirt. I will sing not poems but prayers. The great light will illumine all, and our silly fears and sins will melt like dirty ice on the side of the road.
And we will be changed.
Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— 52 in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we will be changed.
After all, who can sleep when the light shines so bright?