I find it very difficult to talk here now because Im watching the sea all the time. The sea always makes me watch it all the time. Ive spent hours and hours not just on the sea but just watching wave after wave come in. If its an image of anything I think its an image of our own unconscious the unconscious of our own minds... or you can put it the other way around and that is that we have a sea in us. After all we are sea creatures that learnt to walk on the land are we not And perhaps one way or another we go back to it. Every night when we dream we go back into that kind of depths and that kind of beauty and monstrosity and mystery. So really the sea is not a single image it can really image almost anything that the human mind can discover.

You spoke to her in hidden dreams...and smiled at her through open doors. She felt your secret love surround her at times. And while alone she felt your breath heartbeat and more... Serenity of hers is never-ending soothing....it leads lures calls you... Ah timeless burning flame.. Her kiss is ocean salty water you drink and thirst increases...you long and pray for more...

FIRST VOICENow behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea see theSECOND VOICE titbits and topsyturvies bobs and buttontops bags and bones ash and rind and dandruff and nailparings saliva and snowflakes and moulted feathers of dreams the wrecks and sprats and shells and fishbones whale-juice and moonshine and small salt fry dished up by the hidden sea.

At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallow or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow.