"the sweeping insensitivity of this still life"
I'm somewhat bothered by this sadness. That has so cleverly crept upon me. Unwarranted and unabashed. And here I find myself in an attempt to abate the feeling. Yet, I've missed this. Your ghost and your visits. I remember the cold February air and its bitter coffee. The way I sat on that school bench. Detached and in the discomfort of my naked eyes, I watched the day turn grey. And for a second out of millions, you were with me as you are now. Come and go as you wish. But you can't miss what you forget.