Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

By daily dying, I have come to be.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?

In the kingdom of bang and blab.

To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.