Yes, you were in front of him (and six hundred years in front of him too), you mad pip, yes you, and what would you be if you were not mad, how boring to not be mad, and what is madness but the margin of the myth of man, where art is born, what would your poems be if not for that fine line between the M’ness and G’ness we seek in the bottle’s dregs…all of us poets are mad, don’t you know, it comes with the turf—and raging drunk whenever we can be. Cheers.