And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly.
Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.
Maya Angelou, When Great Trees Fall
"So what have you been doing with yourself," she asks as I sit myself beside her in the next place.
Trying to be and be better.