I once shrouded myself in poetry, inhaling the works of Burns, Tennyson, and Atwood as if they were life itself. I used to think in meter and ryhme, and everything around me was something beautiful, wonderful and new. I always had a book of collected works at hand, carrying them where-ever I went. I would listen to songs for the lyrics, not the music.
I crave the flow and ebb of words, lines, stanzas. Half-remembered images.