And don’t start writing love poems right away, because they’re the hardest. Wait at least eighty years. Write about something else – I don’t know – about the sea, the wind, the radiator, about the delayed city bus, because nothing is more poetic than the other.

Do you know how long it took Eve to choose the right fig leaf?

“This one doesn’t fit me, nor does this one, nor this other one,” until she had checked the entire garden of earthly paradise.

You have to choose.

Sometimes it takes eight months to choose a single word. Choose, because beauty began when men began to choose.

And dress your poems well. Choose your words carefully. Because poetry is not outside – it’s inside.