I’ve often wondered why so many writers –poets in particular– are so freaking depressed. I mean, take Emily Dickinson. Cute girl, nice family, beautiful house in the Pioneer Valley…maybe she didn’t date much, but honestly what did she expect with the severe center part and lack of volume at the crown?
But instead of getting up early and banging out a few rhymes about pearls and girls and then spend the rest of the day banging inappropriate men on behalf of the war effort –which is what I’d do if I were a poet– she spent her life writing morbid stuff about public frogs and angels with curious ideas towards haberdashery. Why?
Turns out it was the clothes.
Behold the Style & Co “poet shirt.” Who knew?