Would Walt Whitman be happy about me writing an essay on his work?
Because of you, but really because of myself, Whitman, I am unable to go to that empty bench on the white hilltop amongst the trees.
I am stuck with you, even though you claim to be connected to something beyond your written word.
I am stuck on you, and can't run and dance as I should. I must write of you, and me, and in being the "you" you describe attempt to connect and understand you through the text; through your text.
Curse you Whitman, you are dead, yet alive, and haunting me from beyond that window as I sit here writing of you, but not living as you live.
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