How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?
-Mark Strand
You stand at the table shuffling papers, and fail to notice dropping something
You move with the papers in hand and the thing remains still
You realize the thing is gone but you are already gone as well
You search for it in the place where you last remember having it
You never find it, and don’t really think about after a while
