Alone in a crowded room.

My pen was a life raft in the middle of the ocean, it was the only place I could ever be free.

And I want to stand by that. Yet, knowing that my profession could leave me in debt or lead me to only low-income jobs makes me wary about pursuing theatre. Any advice would be great. Put on a Happy Face. The other night during my Oklahoma! .

The sound of a garden growing. In which cypress make music. A windlark of sound, an octet of trees. And the gruff bellow of ravens. Startling the quiet of dreamscape. As they round an isthmus of cypress. Like conductors , plucking bird chords. From deep within these restless leaves. Although there is a riff. And it falls like snow. A green riff of green;. I hear a ruffling of leaf. To 40; this time though.