I often go for the scene.I want the story intertwined,In the angle of the bottle.The whole mood,Of the narrative,In the contour.And it is the angleAnd the contourThat keeps me in.Like a hungry cat before its food.

It was resistant to oxygen deprivation.There was something about that seed.You could never cut its umbilical chord.

In all these scrapbooks:Flowers I have liked.Flowers I have seen.Flowers I desired.Flowers that itched.Flowers that burnt.I wonder what was mine?