Olivia: 'Why, what would you? ' 

Viola: 'Make me a willow cabin at your gate 

             And call upon my soul within the house . . . ' 

—Wm. Shakespeare, Twelfth Night 

Therein it lies. 

Quietly. 

Awaiting. 

It is not black. 

It is not sad. 

It is—awaiting. 

It is not cold. 

It is not bleak. 

It is—awaiting. 

There is the sun. 

At night the moon. 

And distantly—the sea. 

There is the surf—awaiting. 

And you—awaiting.

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