On another day it might have been a lasting memory, standing there outside it seemed sad, like the way a dog feels when finding a cold in the nose.
The complexities of Troying to keep it out, would the wall close enough to filter out those hiding to seek.
That was why I thought to write a letter to record my last words before I die . . .
when then, or perhaps it was a few days later or even befour, I could not find any to say bye which I wanted to be remembered.
You could decide for yourself if I were to write them, then again bye the words not written here you can imagine where, wear and ware and no, the meaning not there, before I could, should or would.
I thought if I just looked hard enough, there was a place for me and you, together, it did not matter if anyone found us, hiding was not necessary when we did not care to see them, and explicitly not to invite them over for dinner or on a Sunday drive in the country.
Instead it was always outside, on the street without hopes or dreams and with commitments and obligations that know one, or two or three (n, n1, n2, . . .) wanted.
I address you You’re Excellency, but will not ask for what I knead, that would give you power to hurt me, never more, never more . . .
This would be how you would see my last words when.
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