Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

Maybe you saw her first? Caught a glimpse between the lines, between the letters, like a ghost in the mirror, a ghost in the wings?

Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.

...she still cannot resist looking out the window every couple of minutes. The sound of a passing truck causes her to glance away. Even if there is no sound, the weight of a hundred seconds always turns her head.

One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.