Marxist-self irony:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too. It’s July, August.. 
And this is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting arbiters of something loath. Something enlivened, something ripe. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, coming July, August..