It's incredible how easily and fluent I become at clinging to shores. Perhaps I'm mostly out at sea and when I see signs of momentary port I sail towards them like the wind, with desperation to belong. You are a port I always cling to. He was to, until recently, until I realised he wasn't a port at all, but a floating buoy. A larger than life, land-like convincing buoy, but a buoy non-the-less. I made a book, wrote a poem about that cling-to port, and it cleverly foresaw all the drifting that inevitably came my way. Drifting. I recognise it all too easily. We all mostly drift, to and from one decision denied to the next, in and out of commitment to anything, to anyone, we silently hope the seas will carry us somewhere familiar, or somewhere new. But carry us they do. It's so very hard to swim against that tide.