Purists will complain that we’ve sapped our language of its poetry by turning it into a blunter instrument. The purists are wrong. We’re still poets. We’ve just traded sonnets for haiku. Today, the romance of our language is found in its smallest constructions, in its syllables and how they sound when we put them together, simply, quietly. Our words have white space around them. That’s where we’ve become artists again.
-“The Words of Men” in Esquire Magazine. Pretty sure this could be my mission statement. Wow.-
