When bounds are renounced and on the horizon the sea lies in the sky, when the pen writes only ghosts, when heart and mind are as one frustration in yesterday, and I am become a sieve which yesterday sows,
when your words have already spoken me, when your poems have already felt my felt, when your novels have written me out,
when what you saw I see, when what you wrote I write, when what was you is me,
that this is my place, that I am only the way which opens your way, that I am the passing between night and day
in parentheses 
enter the discussion: