Wish me luck.

The wind worries corrugated surfaces, dragging knuckles over the washboard of the world. Carried by an ocean without water - a deluge - debris collects at the high tideline of my heart. Three yellow leaves, and three grey feathers caked with ashen grit. A spindle of wild grass and a thresh of dry eucalypt leaves. A pale yellow gum blossom, skirts lifted about a red stamen. A hollow plastic fish with a red snout, drained of Soya Sauce. Two small white feathers, a curl of raw bark, a scar of treated pine. The unkissed lip of a broken bottle. I pick through the trash and treasure searching for unconscious connections between images that could untwine the mystery between us; if it worked like that, would I be fractured under the weight of insight, or would I wear the understanding lightly? It isn't easy here, in the skin of the writer, the skin of the musician. Am I a roughly assembled rag doll of interdisciplinary aspirations, or am I becoming my natural potential? How dangerous are questions? Why do I feel so barely stitched together? My insides of woman barely covered, my ambition a makeshift tourniquet rather than a divas finery. A bit rough around the edges? A bit rough all over. I am not a machine, but if I run all the time, will I run down, or break the last horse of hope? Am I stretched too thin, or is it that I have been shredded apart so much that there is more wounded territory than whole? Only the wind roars within and without, calling 'Where will the stillness come from?'