while i stand still, firm on my feet, on my rooted brain, the world seems to move in such a motion i cannot begin to comprehend, or even rightly appreciate.__while i am almost always here, being not much more than what is said often enough, they come, they go, they are born, they die::most of the time they die.__dying is not such a difficult thing for all it takes is a little misplacement, a little corruption, a little change; and change is so sudden, so perfectly unperceived, that i seem to be standing by corpses every day.__well, she died.
and all i did was watch and wait, as one does when reality becomes diluted, all i do now is listen to the words that come from that mouth i once heard speaking grandly of all things that to man and god alike appeal.__but she is dead, i cannot let myself forget that.__it has no impact, no emotional consternation of any sort for she was never a part of what i could grasp of the world; then again, there is not much i can see behind of this ego that holds my world together.__for her, the letter will always be unsent.
"Once dearest you:
It seems the time for childish view has come to an end since before this world was made, it seems i cannot longer hold my breath in the presence of your ever so displeasing way of seeing, it seems you and i are not able to converge, or diverge.__it seems you are dead without my knowing it.
maybe you were never born and your strange character is just a figment of collective imagination, your journey was just a way of showing us there is no more to you than what we wanted, what we pretended to see, what we wouldn't tell ourselves, what the world never tried to show us.
once dearest one, you have failed at being, you have died on your knees, you have killed us suddenly, you have... nothing more to show."
nothing more than the strange reminiscence of a being never brought forth to existence.