In Raymond Carver's case, he's living proof that everything - anything - is fodder for art, prose and the like.
I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I'm sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It's this and similar questions
I'm trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
-- Raymond Carver