There is a sentence inside me longer than life, yet destined to end in a minute.
A statement without words or form, beyond communication, like a destination without a location, still calling me.
A tale that never ends, like a marksman shooting away from his target, convinced that eventually he will hit something. And when he does, it hurts.
A question burning inside me, unanswered because, somehow, I forgot to ask.
A letter written but never mailed.
A post postponed.
Francis Erich McElroy 