We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.