Flipping through the pages,

the off-white, ruled paper

noisily gives way.

An unexpected record of thought is found,

though one which was never meant to be

any more than the resting place

for the tip of whatever writing instrument

had something to scrawl out.

Numbers, letters, and assorted

scribbles now came together to

tell a story of scattered thoughts

and passing whimsies.

The wind blows

and the crinkled pages

flip and whip about,

and faintly a whisper of its

words and thoughts

can almost be made out

in that singular, cacophanous

event.

"I am still here...."

... and then it is gone.