In this lack of emptiness called silence:

Dear Sally,

I read this poem last night, and it haunted me.

I wrote this response to you that later disappeared from my phone, so I will try to paraphrase without doing so.

Or not.

When I woke up from my rest this morning, I couldn't stop thinking about the ages we contain: the time within us. And as I was trying to think about this response, I couldn't decide if it was about the time we contain or how we are contained inside of time.

I see, also, all those other "me" distant and close. Sometimes, they are so close in physicality that it is uneasy. Nevertheless, they are far away. Sometimes I'm my ancestors or the ones I know. This morning, while having coffee with a friend, I couldn't stop feeling I was my grandfather. Quiet faintly.

And then now, I wonder if these bodies of ours are just an anchor, something to hold ourselves, maybe attain a sort of gravitas, in this our dream.

Thank you so much for sharing your poem with us.

Pablo