Is It The Sea You

I Must Bridge The Gap Between Adolescent Glitter And Mature Glow.

I Felt Very Still And Empty, The Way The Eye Of A Tornado Must Feel, Moving Dully Along In The Middle Of The Surrounding Hullabaloo.

Do I Like To Write? Why? About What? Will I Give Up And Say, "living And Feeding A Man's Insatiable Guts And Begetting Children Occupies My Whole Life. Don't Have Time To Write"?

What Did My Fingers Do Before They Held Him? What Did My Heart Do, With Its Love?

Is There No Way Out Of The Mind?