Sitting in a second floor technical cathedral, a post-industrial church dedicated to knowledge for the pursuit of money. Dough. That sweet green stuff.
I've just returned from a weekend in the city, and my heart beats from those last few moments continue to echo. The dreams these echos inspire do you no good, and I am left to puzzle over all I can have of you, the echo of love from a lifetime ago.
When M fell down those steps I was too slow to know what it would mean to me... but I think it was my disconnect. Like an echo I now reach out from a voice already silent. I think you've helped me begin to find an end to our story... but where the story goes, I feel, depends on if this story ends.
Let me tell you: life is a song, every human an organic instrument, we only live when we sing, and love is the harmony created by two instruments milking melodies from future memory. These echos make me mad in my heart; mad wishing we could sing just one more song together...
