Find me in my resentments of the big open blue, chasing down the clouds like a sighthound along the mountains ridge, the Kate Bush song on my father's favourite Rewind cd, scratched, overcast, but always revolving in memory. When did I begin to hate mirrors and possability, the open canvas I wish would leave my sight, a curtain to the window I want so badly. What is next, what will there be, what will be lost, who am I?