I have seen it too many times
already. A woman cannot, at once,
be both a muse and a writer. To
fill two roles in a system, both leaves and tree,
makes for, when there are two children, four
unhappy people. She must both fight
for her time and be, for the man, be sex.
They may, for some years not exceeding seven,
live in frigid peace, but before long, she will hate
him and say nothing but, “No, non, nein.”
No, a woman cannot be a muse, and then
a writer. For she will always end up dead.
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