.....

it's different, i always thought, when someone dies.
when someone dies, there is a patch of blankness that makes it possible to accept.
A certain satisfaction in encountering the infinite.
But someone is lost to you and still lives, its an absurdity.

People fall in love in an instant, but it takes longer to fall out of love.
Perhaps there is a world where people would act on whim where deeds could detach themselves cleanly from all motion of consequences.
To him, it was an odd kind of nostalgia for things that never happened,
for a presence that like old memories, open a door on another direction,

A place where late night footsteps echo in foreign streets and you hold your breath perishing to know what comes next.
the kind of silence so accommodating, expectancy laughing in the air like clouds hanging over the dome.
With him, it was just a flash of idle curiosity, the kind which evokes a child to poke a stick into an anthill.
An action that, like the unknown secretary's gift of a ticket cannot be undone.