We can only grab at the shadows of those who are gone.
"he was the D flat that made the minor chords, sort of eerie and looming, it’s so wrong but it was so right in its own way."
Update from the Weather Channel
45 degrees and 80% chance of rain
Sometimes, we only tell what we wanted to believe in, what we wanted to be reality. We want to be victimized by the world to be free of guilt.
Things from Austen’s backpack
road map with highlighted routes that ended nowhere, telescope, bottled shipwrecks, album full of leaves (crimson, forsythia-yellow, brown, crisp, smooth), dried roses tucked between the journals, earl gray tea bags, flashlights
Things that were left behind
sparkling drinks, beaten smiles, a casket wedged between the spinal chords, the perfect shade of blue underneath the eyes, snow that blanketed the earth (for comfort? for ignorance? for resurrection?), blank stares and full body bags
But what if I told you that there was a friend to enjoy the drink with, a first-aid kit to mend the bruises, a hammer to crush the casket into wood chips, hours reserved for sleep, a sun over the snow? Would the story change?
Is the truth compromised by their voices or does the story lie in their thoughts, reactions, feelings?