I am not me. Anyone who is what I claim to be will say that I am not. Sculptor? Me? Ask one and see. I stop the nothing I am doing and sculpt a thing, proclaim it unprecedented, then collapse in anguish at the embarrassment my hands have wrought. Looking for attention, trying too hard. So it is with all I try to say, or want to be. Men who are what they are hate the likes of me. Someone forever trying to be something than what they are. Coming along, late in life, trying to find what I am. I do not see the embarrassment my aspirations reveal. I am not saying this clearly. These are not the right words. Ask anyone.