When I read, when I glean through the thoughts and words of dead, past authors, I find a place where I could belong. This place is of limited spatial dimension, of transiency: those thoughts icily printed and frozen in time: alive in those finite moments of contemplation but a mere cadaver in action, in present and living. The desire to seek companionship, to seek solace, wisdom and guidance from these people is impossible and improbable. They have left the world of the speaking. This is the tragedy of finding physical real companionship – (1) they may have left, (2) you might never meet them, even if you do (3) you would eventually lose them to Death, Circumstances, Life, Time, Yourself. Maybe, this is why I have you. You, who is always there from childhood hours to the dusk of girlhood, evolving and metamorphosing along with I.
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