February 21st, 2003 - 9:36 a.m.

A yawning yaw.

There is a turbulent ocean. Crests white, and waters dark. Like faulty transmission on a telly screen, all pixelated busyness and frantic noise.

A raft constructed of typewritten papers, old photographs and splintering green plastic coated bamboo, covering long sun blistered and faded. Rattling its human hair leash at the dock.

Ill preparation could be one way to put it. No-other-choicedness.

Would be much beholden if this does not turn out to be much too yaw.

N.

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