Dialogue's A Method Of Revelation,

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

We Were Moderate, We Will Never Know What It Is To Spill Out Our Lives.

Life Passes Into Pages If It Passes Into Anything.

If You Write Enough, You Begin To Learn To Do Things. But In A Way, You Do Start From Zero Each Time.

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.