A tiny note on a piano key
can bear more weight than
a thousand books, but a river
will not stop flowing just
because you want it to. Control
is pointless because after you die,
it is lost.

You are lost. No more words will
flow through your lips, no more
touches will be exchanged through
your fingertips. How does one
control life? That unimaginably
imaginable thing that does not
use words; no pen can create
it, however desperate.

I have decided that you are not
really lost because I know where
you are, but I wonder where your
thoughts went. Were they
erased, or did they float away
to live in the air, to
haunt whoever walks through them?
This seems more likely to me,
and I would like to find them, to
keep them and press them into my
journal, to cherish and to learn