William Blake and I often jump through the loop. We box ourselves in and shut ourselves off, until there is only a smaller and smaller space between us, and we are in the same brain and box. For I live in a box, and the images that sit in my eyes are the walls of my box, and the sounds that come to my ears are the walls of my box. There is nothing outside of my box, but that is all darkness and void. But sometimes William Blake and I find ourselves in the same box. I held the glass to his lips, and he swallowed the water; and the water was cold and clear and clean, though he lived in a world of filth. And he said to me, "This water is lovely. This water comes from deep under deep waters; I know it doesn’t merely come from the surface of shallow waters." "I think you are bewildered," I said. "It came from my tap." "This water is lovely," he repeated, and he took another drink. And he said to me this: "I warned thee that thou wouldst be the people’s murderer. But it is no matter. I think the people shall murder thee in self-defense, when they see the poison of thy words." "There is an engine inside of me," I said; "there is a speaker speaking. I think he must be filibustering, and goes on and on about every type of nonsense." "Thou art possessed of a poetic angel," said William Blake, "and freedom shall never be thine." He began doing my dishes. "What are you doing?" I said. "Just a senseless little ritual," he said, "like beginning prayer with the hands at the ears. Don’t worry: it means nothing."