My dear city,
I am leaving you.
I am taking the boat tonight and from the deck I will see you fade. You will disappear from me. You will slide from being real and tangible to abstract. You will be part of a photo book, a range of memories so still they look like postcards. How come even when everything is moving, all my memories are stills? They are immobile, not breathing. It must have something to with death. How does one mourn a place? Or a time?
