I pretend each wave shapes me,
To appear just – in other’s eyes
Until my last shred of remorse
Shall skim the shores of yore
And I, to fish for answers there,
And I, to sell them to questions

For to lose everything was a trinity
And t’lose me self was to find me here,
Here where I ne’er stood nor will
But where t’was always the contrary.

Marco Delrio

The Island

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