The words have a way of creeping up on you like water that rises through rivulets. There are no wild proclamations, nor sweeping odes of sentiment; just the flow of sentences and syntax. Thoughts somehow segue, made beautiful by diversity, like pictures and parchments that decorate a refrigerator door.
You don’t see it coming, not until the last word on the last page, when eyes race forward and breath pulls back, when the heart begins to pace, and thoughts begin to linger. Indeed, such is the art of beautiful writing. It teaches you to live, invites you to die; aqueous magnetic, fatally seductive.
And it matters naught that these caresses, like fingers on piano keys, end in a slow smother. Let there be music; so long as the requiem is remembered.