Like an oriental calligrapher, I inscribe glyphs on the even white space. I mould shadows into shapes, Fluid forms into concrete reality; or rather it becomes something that suggests meaning-but has none. No semantic meaning. There may be no words in these poems, but there is an emotional meaning. Meaning? What is that? Meaning is fleeting. Meaning is a phase, a phrase, a step. Meaning is insubstantial. It exists-then it exits, never staying for long.