The margins of my notebooks are graveyards full of words that will never be heard. Their bodies are piling up, immobile and waiting. My eyes refuse to see them even as my head bends over the pages for future revelations. Yet I know they are there. When the sun’ll rise earlier and its light flows on me after a long day, the summer solstice embedded in my skin, I’ll take a last look at them and remember. Some will make history, raised from their sleep, immortals amongst their kind, only for others to fade into the void, humanity in twenty-six letters, rising and falling with the tides of life and creation, families born with a destiny. To create a revolution. To whisper love in the dead of night. To capture beauty on a fingertip. Strength and frailty playing side by side.

Twenty-six letters, bilions of fates, one more soul to touch, one more heart to take. The margins speak of life and death and all that makes me human. Following their trail and making my own, I found love.

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