We have a piece of flint, and a spark.This singing art is sea foam.The graceful movements come from a pearlsomewhere on the ocean floor.Poems reach up...like spindrift and the edgeof driftwood along the beach, wanting!They derivefrom a slow and powerful rootthat we can't see.Stop the words now.Open the window in the center of your chest, and let the spirits fly in and out."Where Everything Is Music" by Jalaluddin Rumi (1207-1273)"Wait! What do you mean that you will return to the stage again?"Her. My penis, hard and steel, is getting stimulation from the sheet as I toss and turn in my half-dream. This awakens me, and I feel again the leaden throb of pain in my balls, so familiar yet so impossible to stand. I groan with the truth of my pitiful existence. My cock remains hard, betraying me my disgust at what he will do. It is tightly bound to my balls with more of the plastic ties, and he pulled them very tight before he left me here. The plastic imprisonment holds the blood in my swollen. More

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