(no subject)
Touch, touch, touch. Fingers press on plastic. Small symbols in light you see as simply as the Sun. Small pieces of me copied and sent with some hope that someone still remembers me even - especially - when I do not. Tomorrow is another day, an echo of yesterday, of a thousand days I hardly remember. Resolute as a statue I sit in solid, perpetual form. Whether infinite or infinitesimal I'm not sure except I wish someone were here with me to experience that solipsism is a lie, seductive though it seems. You are not alone. I am not alone. But I repeat myself.