When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know. "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said. "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.

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

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?