When We Went Into The Ocean, I

No, What I Felt Was The Torment Of Waiting, Stuck Between The End Of One Sentence And The Beginning Of The Next Which Might Or Might Not Bring A Hail Storm, Plane Crash, Poetic Justice, Or A Miraculous Reversal.

I Was Never A Man Of Great Ambition I Cried Too Easily I Didn't Have A Head For Science Words Often Failed Me While Others Prayed I Only Moved My Lips

Sometimes I Forget That The World Is Not On The Same Schedule As I. That Everything Is Not Dying, Or That If It Is Dying It Will Return To Life, What With A Little Sun And The Usual Encouragement.

There Are Times When The Kindness Of Strangers Only Makes Things Worse Because One Realizes How Badly One Is In Need Of Kindness And That The Only Source Is A Stranger.

That Powers My Desire To Write: The Sense Of How Quickly Everything On The Surface Of Life Can Be Cut Away And You Can Suddenly Be Inside The Most Inner Part Of The Most Inner Life Of A Person. What Does It Feel Like There, And What Are The Regrets And Sensations And Longings, And What Is The Music Of It?