Because your ghost lingers and I refuse to let it disappear.
And why on the palimpsest that is experience can we not erase what has been etched so deep it feels like cruel Braille?
When one is removed is it still a heap?
What loss we feel without the grain that gives us meaning;
do we mean?
Will we question like an eager Socrates or will we stew in the thick, filthy broth of memories that have been ascertained (?) as mere grandoise constructions?
Have none of the memories been pure?
Is the measure of life death?
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