When I was born, salt-water waves splashed versus antarctic clay financial institutions and the wonderful, antarctic stones of the Pacific coastline, the rocking of the globe in the cradle of the Sea. The shouts of seagulls joined the disrespectful clang of foghorns and also the miserable keening of ships’ bells in those grey worlds between the physical as well as the fluidic, where desire as well as landscape are knitted together with calmness, persistent voice. Port Angeles is a harbor of desires, of emotional hopings that confiscate the heart. The Killer Whale looks its midsts; the Eagle circles overhead. Though take on knights sought the Grail in the misty islands of Britain, some rumor of it prowls here – a resemble of its euphoria in the shadowy rhythm of salty hazes, …