What could one expect of poets, even if they were workers, too? They were simply monsters of egotism, blind and deaf to the fortunes of their fellows, narcissists mesmerised by the sufferings they invented only in order to immortalise them in verse.
Last night, when I couldn't sleep, I lay up, as well as reading a couple of chapters of that novel, I practised my guitar (with a view to finally adding to those Youtube videos), made an entry into my Chinese-language diary, made another abortive attempt at creative writing, but all can be described as an attempt to invent emotions only in order to immortalise them.
By the way, if you read this Betty. I can't reply to your comment because I can't see my own or your blog. If you drop me an e-mail at mcgeary.gmail.com or add another comment with your own e-mail address, then we can have some guanxi.