From a letter from Blake to Thomas Butts, 1803
What is left when doubt remains?
Doubt sits on an invisible throne in my head.
It resides in that narrow space between the eyes,
so I see is wrongness and lack of trust.
Is it clarity? Is it illusion? It paces.
It wanders into my blind-side; in the troubled heart,
taking accusations like knuckles. How can I see?
Nothing is trustworthy. Nothing is real or too real.
When nothing is real, things are itchy in my palms.
I have to sketch things as I see them,
and I am not certain what I see.
Is it an angle of light, piercing the clouds?
O, open me comforting Spirit, to what is and what is not.