Concerning the passing of time

   Adjacent to the man in the white hat, behind the doppelganger, atop the bench and above the eunuch. That is where you stood. In the railway station that led to nowhere, in a mass of artists and tourists alike, you stood alone. Sure, there was the young one, and sometimes the prude, but you were always there, unwavering,understanding, but not sympathetic. No, you were cold, cold but not dead. In you was the rare spark, frigid life. You were the single vine coiled about the barbed wire, eking out life amongst icy death.
   Yes, there atop your perch you surveyed, through hooded eyes, your vibrant yet boring surroundings. From mine I saw your eyes scan the hall, past ghosts made solid and people made to paper. Beauty is what what we sought, you and I. I like to think we found it, later, amongst branches and long dead behemoths, amidst those same sad artists and lonely tourists, at once quickened with life, if only for a while. Yes, beauty is what we sought, and beauty is what we found, in ink and pulp and bits of sand.
   Yet for all our success you were never satisfied, long past I'd stopped looking, you were visible on the shoreline, overlooking the wall. It was there that I captured the essence of your soul. Ink and pulp could never do you justice, but I like to think I tried. I was not the only one. For less than a score of mornings, you drifted to and fro on that frothy rock. For all I know you are still there. When last I saw you, you were far away, certainly not in the here and now, no I was alone that day, even before we said "goodbye".
   So I will always remember, not the you that was so distant and lost, but the you adjacent to the man in the white hat, behind the doppelganger, atop the bench and above the eunuch.