Roaming here and there, between the cliffs of insanity and April.
My thoughts, fears, feelings... intertwine. They change. I do not sometimes. They too sometimes stay the same. The song in me wants to fly free. The bird has it. I need it. I cannot Let me be.
"Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning."
(1-4, Stevie Smith, from: Not Waving but Drowning")
background image of Gravatar: photographer AB Troen, my youngest brother.