I found this in a drawer the other day:

I consider myself a fountain of things that I do not understand.
And every word strives to reach you, past and through. Of your own.
        And I don't know what to feel to make it ours and not just mine, what to say.
So I think perhaps it would be better left unsaid.
       That is the least of it and I am spent with the feeblest of motions, breezes,
towards sun and thought and day and all. 
        And with these delicate wispy moments, clearly clear as air everything
 I see stills, frames, captured and darkened, exposed and spent, and left again. 
I know nothing. 


I tend to do this a lot; I write random little things on bits of paper and then hide them away, only to find them years later. Like little, forgotten time capsules to myself.

Hey, have I ever told you that when I was in Junior high, my (then) best friend used to say I sounded like an afterschool special? I tended to use a lot of grandiose, quasi-melodramatic language and he thought it sounded silly. It probably did.

That friend is an artist now, and he creates some really stunning work. I'm not just saying that because he used to be my good friend.

This one is my favourite.

Mike Gough is his name, by the way. He is a Newfoundland artist. Well, an artist from Newfoundland.