I never laugh or smile when I am writing. When I come home for lunch after writing all morning my wife says I look like I just came home from a funeral. This is not bragging. This is an illness.
Even if you walk exactly the same route each time - as with a sonnet - the events along the route cannot be imagined to be the same from day to day as the poet's health sight his anticipations moods fears thoughts cannot be the same.
