The continual blinking assures us that we are, indeed, still awake.

If there is something worth saying it is my desire to speak it here, alone. I'll continue to wait if only to sing my softness.

There are words for me, none of which can be said sans regret. They sound like scattered and distracted and worn. They sound like clarity and dreamt and adrift. They wonder if not looking means to be seen, or if they've become someone's secret. I don't even mind.

I want to be an anchor for someone. To be my own would be drowning.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/16/04)