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Silence is a collector, a collector of words. As a constant traveler objects can get costly and only bog him down. But words are scattered freely and weigh nothing. Collecting words takes only a pen and a pad of paper. He collects phrases casually falling from the lips of people he meets. He listens for snippets of conversation, random quotes from strangers. He captures images and wordplay. He loves spontaneous wordplay, the tangled sentences on the tip of tongues.

He collects ideas like a photographer takes pictures, fragments of imagery surfacing for a moment. But he never creates a whole. He lives his life like castles in the sand. Each moment carefully sculpted, each meeting an adventure-only to be washed away each evening with the tide.

Silence doesn’t believe in permanency. His essence, like your own, can only be refracted in words that circle, not fixed in photographs. Drizzled pieces of experience, he understands memory as a collage whose instances we can only try to collect.



When I got back, the apartment looked the same, but she was gone. There was no note, but I could tell.

True to her word she hadn't taken anything. She had promised, more than once, that she would leave every book, every rough draft, every post-it note.
Everything was as I had left it. As she had left it. Probably the day after I had left, but I'll never know. It was preserved the way chairs and desks are arranged in history museums. I think that is what she had intended.

So, here is where I started figuring things out. Sometimes things just happen. Good, bad: hard to tell. It might take years for you to understand the how and the why.
Someone once said you can't blame the wind for blowing.

You also can't lose paradise if you were never lucky enough to find it.


The End

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