O, what howling winds blew through this abyss.
The vaulted vacuum where once grey and white matters
Did grand calculations and cogitated on great thoughts.
Plans made. Recipes deciphered. Memories stored?
Just a great galloping gale upon which one
Could hear, just barely hear, if given the feeling that
Some small something might be learned from
This breeze in the bottomless confines between bone pillars
Of insignificance—a little message—
One could, might maybe hear:
I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’ll never forget our anniversary again.