"But finally you find that you have people of flesh and blood on your hands, people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort." (Harold Pinter)
This place does not feel empty, not as empty as I would expect it to be, without you. In truth I can hear your steps, your voice, I can sense your scent. You are here and you are not. You are real, and you are not.
Is it echo of my memories, echo in a mind now turned to the void?
Image: Alina Noir, via afroui
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