16 Jun 2005

In memory, I was a perfect child, but it explains little how I came to be such a flawed man.

In memory, some edges soften, but there are words that feel even more pointed.

In memory, what we see, we cannot imagine how anyone else remembers differently.

In memory, we excuse ourselves for all the crimes we ever commit, but others must pay.

In memory, our love — how was it that they felt none of it, when our heart was about to burst?

In memory, time plays tricks on the mind’s eye, and some moments last all day long.

In memory, we had so much time to kill, and then now, we wonder where it all went.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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