February 1, 1999: How deep is your love
I get a lot from silence—it’s the birthing ground of creativity. My spirit keeper becomes visible. What I hold is a pen—a traveler through time. Who shall it be is me, for I can be he, when asked what could be? To which I reply, “I will be.” Then later become. A pen—dipped in ink, it bleeds like a human. Left to heal, the scar becomes silent. That’s where the questions begin…who shall it be if it can’t be me?