Someone I hadn’t seen in a long time died today.

We were never terribly close; he was older than me during my awkward adolescence, and we stopped living in the same place more than a decade ago. Much of his adult life I know nothing about. But this I do know: every single time I ever saw him, he was kind.

I may not believe in an afterlife in a traditional sense, but I do believe that if we could strip away the illusion of time we would know that everything that has ever happened, every moment that has ever taken place, is happening forever. So here’s to cracking jokes walking the late-night streets of Shoreham, New York–eleven years ago or eleven seconds ago.

Thank you, Mark, for always being so nice to this weird girl trying to hang out with the cool older kids. I never forgot.

This was the song he asked his wife to post after he stopped making any more moments. The choice probably tells you a little something about what he was like.

black ink scraps of white unlined paper, some time ago, in semi-darkness:

You and I, we quickly allow these many small erosions–

the fire hydrant’s leak upon our feet, the gradual disintegration of paper,

the ever and ever passing of time.

The dart’s point grows ever duller with each throw.

My first grey hair lies with Yuliya in Berlin,

beside a burning chapel. 

I spend years of my life on train cars, alone.

We think: how did it happen this time, the sunset? 

The swell and the breaking. The water, the anchor. 

A car door slams a thousand years ago in Brooklyn.

I hear your voice. We sleep, we blindfold each other against the sun.