The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

You Solve It As You Get Older, When You Reach The Point Where You've Tasted So Much That You Can Somehow Sacrifice Certain Things More Easily, And You Have A More Tolerant View Of Things Like Possessiveness (your Own) And A Broader Acceptance Of The Pains And The Losses.

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

One Day God Felt He Ought To Give His Workshop A Spring Clean... It Was Amazing What Ragged Bits And Pieces Came From Under His Workbench As He Swept. Beginnings Of Creatures, Bits That Looked Useful But Had Seemed Wrong, Ideas He'd Mislaid And Forgotten... There Was Even A Tiny Lump Of Sun. He Scratched His Head. What Could Be Done With All This Rubbish?