I met a woman who told me about the sadness that that were my eyes. And a man who told me that I looked as though I were on the verge of tears. And why not. Did I not treat all of life as a funeral now? Had something so very intrinsic to life dropped dead inside me?

What would I tell you if ever we spoke again? Nothing. In this silence thorns have taken root upon my tongue.

If I see you again, it will be, I imagine, like remembering the taste of water.