"She was carrying a book, and the hand-picked flowers she placed on the bed outweighed even the drag of his dying. We believe it's the silence that's fearful, never the words; and yet whenever she stopped reading to turn the page, he would smile. Perhaps, in that stillness he felt his heart stop searching for instructions on how to live."

Jude ****** - Boys Throwing Baseball

And that is the only thing our heart does without understanding why; it searches.
We are too human to love change, something that is as dangerous as anything we could ever willingly let pass us by, and too human to not look for it anyway.
How some things are so much of themselves that they become their own language, like a bright red silk sliding against the shoulders of a woman, how these things are not made for each other, but made for the moments they are intertwined in.
How silence even weighs from the things that never were, taking from the miracles that were one opened mouth away.
And now, as you remember one specific death the most, you desperately search for the life in everything that passes you by, even the things that you know have nothing to offer.
Even the World, in all It's isolation, gives back to us by pushing us away from It.
Even the small things that we decide to keep for ourselves have come a long way to find us.
A cigarette. A person. A rainfall.
All spend their whole lives waiting to be found.