I Don't Know If I

Walter Loves The Sea, And I Need It In Some Elemental Way That I Cannot Even Come Close To Verbalizing. I Become Dim And Shriveled Somehow At My Very Core If I Am Away From The Sea Too Long. When I Return To It I Seem To Fill Up And Overflow With It, Soaking In The Vast, Sighing Wetness Of It Like A Parched Vine In A Long, Soft Spring Rain.

Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its Own Reward.

I Have A Theory That Southern Madhouses Are Full Of Gifted Women Who Were Stifled.

I Could Run Nearly Naked On A Hot, Windy Beach And Plunge Without Care Into A Running Diamond Sea; Roll On The Sand And Fling My Arms Wide To The Sun And Still Be What I Was...young.

It's Unimaginable To Me That I Wouldn't Write, But It's Very Imaginable That I Won't Write For A Little While.