Maybe it’s the way it is, we slowly turn invisible and then one day forgotten, a few lines, a few verses, stay behind like the dust of an old pick up truck riding a dirt road in rural Montana.

Maybe we still exist, our essence so faint we are called ghosts and only a few can tell about us. And we go about like penitents looking for mediums who will tell the living about our sorrows and our love.

Maybe we are sill here, maybe they are still here, suspended in their poems and stories and words. Borges, T.S. Eliot, in some distant spiral of our galaxy, Asimov, circumnavigating Jupiter, Clarke in the company of Hal.

Maybe some of us can still intuitively feel them, a Man walking some dirt path in Galilee, being betrayed, betraying, the Son of Man.

One day we will walk that nebulae, one day we’ll become dust.