It is June. I am tired of being brave.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Love your self's self where it lives.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.