Sheezahee

Frail skipper under the roaring forties, tormented off the capes and rocked by the swells, Sheezahee traces the sea in solitude, singing for the glory of the froth. We think we are dreaming. We dream. We think we’re waking up. We are awakening. The sea is there, full, black, big heart of the crowd in the dark of the room, and we drift in the night.