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I remembered one day an older woman, very experienced said to me, I, - I!  You say this I a lot, what is this I?


 And after along time sleeping, I, in the most vibrant sense of the word woke up to its presence ploughing through writings and descriptive verse. What a shock to discover its enormity and its constancy in everything I do, what does this mean? - how big is it or rather what is its purpose? Sacrility, like a clandestine affair, remoteness and the lack of it within myself. Yet I am nothing without it and as much as I am humiliated by this lack, I have to admit a terrible and hungry need that is not easily fulfilled, and that need driving me onwards, inwards is the secret, silent part of my soul  that begs for the presence of this mysterious I.    


(For Wendy Harris.)

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