I notice how they write of largess, the poets, the writers. I notice this and think of how small I am. Full, but small. The world I write from is a hallway full of things I am beginning to understand. Things like my own body, how kitchens are important, the smell of mint bushes in the rain and the endless length of my wife's white thighs. These little things I can tuck into, can carry with me and know that wherever I am there is enough room.