Water.

I’m not sure what these words are about anymore. I’ve gone through all the old pages, the ones that are wet and wrinkling at the edges. The words in them cast memories, echoes of them at the very least, texured like sand on a beach that I can brush my hand over and feel the grains which dot these slowly fading images. They lie so idle on some imaginary shoreline where the waves so diligently take away pieces of them. I wonder where all those pieces go, and how much they’ve reshaped my recollections. At the end, I fear that it will be nothing but worn out monoliths of memory that stand at the edge, slowly sinking beneath the waterline. Is there nothing but water we are left with?