Where do they hide, hide things? In drawers and in drawers. Under the mattress. In his shoes. Under his clothes. Against his skin. Things are hidden and usually. And boys hide things. They write letters and they write letters. And address and address.
Boys can hide things behind blushing cheeks or in mirrors. Or in their bones.
I spent all last night writing about self-sacrifice as vice. A crucial topic which has no place in my head or in my time. All I can think is what I sacrificed to go back to school. Vice indeed. What I wrote will get me an A but I'm unhappy when I can't write fiction. Writing fiction is my job.
Of course now that I'm back in school, it just looks like a hobby, not a paying job as it should be. But I don't make anything of that. If I have food and board and paper and ink there's no difference, really. School is just a house. A job for what? What am I buying? Time to write. So no difference. Just one unified vocation.
"Doll's boy's asleep under the stile....they must chain his foot, for his wrist's too fine...for every mile the feet go, the heart goes nine."
That's Cummings.