We part our separate ways, and that’s it? Can I not ask why? Where? How? Or perhaps the dead can’t ask? Or do questions keep us alive?
I have memories, but so what? Must I remain a prisoner of my memories? I know they move horizontally, but why not vertically and straight into the sky? Or do they fear that the sky may collapse onto them? Do they then turn into ghosts? When memories become ghosts, do they remain memories or turn to mere fabrications? Can these fabrications bridge the divide? Or is this division beyond a fix?