I work until the impulse falls apart.
The foam left on the beach I call my art.
Effort crests until creation's done,
But then? All purpose frays into a blun-
Dered frizz of thorns, a mudmazemarsh,
Brine-drowned in tears I stubbornly won't shed.

Winds of recognition might refresh
My exhausted soul (still blaming my poor flesh):
Assurance others need these dreams I scrawl;
That baring my own bones may better all.

In other words... the World Dream Bank is done. This is it. The last entry. I've gone through uncountable thousands of dreams and journal entries, written and edited and illustrated and coded... and now the tide of creative frenzy is ebbing. I'm exhausted.

The only question left, here at ebb tide, is how you all see this peculiar monument. I've bared myself to the bone, all right. But does it do the job, show readers what dreaming can be?

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