i'd almost forgotten how his handwriting looked like; that first initiation to character-- on my part, at least, for whom the work of hands has always been important. so to see it again-- torn paper; too tired to read- was a jolt of sorts.
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there once was a love and then it turned into something else. this is the story of many and any; the essence of which is detritus. to use a cheap metaphor: fire burns and leaves behind ashes: nothing can happen without leaving marks of impact; residue.
so some things turn mellow like wine; others veer into vinegar; and yet others are consumed by ever-present decay. it would be so much easier should the human race be infected with collective amnesia: no grudges, then; no lingering longing, no slow fizzle to the death- lifting the curse of histories.
but what, too can be argued for a life of instances?
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and looking down on my own distracted notes i acknowledge the fond fact surreptitiously, how mine has become as his- not the same, nor still questing inwardly for some sort of renaissance or reconstruction -- only a feeble yet persistent remembering. so these traces, then. these traces.
mellie contemplated 6:18 PM
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