Words have longer lives than people.
I used to be someone.
Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)
I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.
It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.
...and time becomes a forgotten detail.