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I remember spending hours staring at that picture. The sky was blue, the leaves were just turning red and yellow, you were smiling, I was smiling -- the weak, false smiles of a photograph -- but it wasnít about the memory, it was about the image. The way your forehead wrinkled with the dual effort of smiling while squinting into the sun, the way the wind caught your hair and made it look so thin, the way your arm slung around me made me look so small. Thatís how the picture would always remember you; a perfect image trapped in time.

Days went by, and I went about life, but the photo was always somewhere within reach. No matter what sort of work I was supposed to be doing, I always found time to bring it out and gaze into it for a while. I remember thinking that one thousand words would never be enough to describe it. Every leaf, every speck of dirt, every line on your worn and leathery skin was its own word. This wasnít a picture of a boy with his hero, it was a picture of millions and billions of words arranging themselves in a way that would speak a different sentence to everyone who read them, but would always say the same thing to me. I remember I would find myself putting the picture down, looking around me, and finding that no matter where I was the world would never be made up of as many words as that little photograph. I would try naming things, describing every detail around me, but nothing was ever so complicated, so grand, as that one perfect image. So I would stare at the picture, counting the words, until my eyes grew sore and my mind grew tired. And always, without exception, I would come to the same conclusion. No matter where I found them, or how many there were, no amount of words could ever bring you back.




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The following comments are for "Thousands of Words"
by Spider





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