I have sat and traced the jumble of errors that made up my life.
Like an old musty box of mementos, lying open between my scuffed shoes of travel.
In a dusty framed mirror,
I see the many blind avenues that lead inexorably to the decline of reason,
till there was no reason.
On the Atlantic coast of Portugal, there is a point
where the incessant pounding of the restless ocean,
and the stubborn resistance of the primal basalt land
reaches an uneasy truce: long enough to last a lifetime.
My Love and I walk the foothills of this place and understand:
this lifetime we must make our own.
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