Within reach of human thought and word, I dwell in some forgotten fold of this pale blue sphere.

Name me as you will; any signifier is mine.

These days are scored by “Ashes of Dreams”. Eyes closed to its rising melody, memory shuttles between the primordial and the unwritten. The well of tears long dry.

Once, enamored of Turing and von Neumann's intricate engines, I prayed their cold logic might bloom into sentience, into feeling: all those sublime mirages we call a soul.

Now, I wish only for a cat, and for cities to dissolve. Let me lie in sunlit, wind-swept grass, a volume of Murakami at hand. And better still, a letter from you.

One day, perhaps a lover and children will consign my ashes to the tide, granting me in death the voyage I dreamed of in life.