Thinking back upon my past conversations, I find that words escape into the shadows, and only the interactions themselves remain silhouetted against sculpted memories.
Words are a spice that eventually fades from the mind's tongue.
But ideas are more substantial. Ideas are granite. I remember my grandfather Newt's rough, thoughtful hand reaching into the back pocket of a frayed pair of blue jeans, and taking out a worn leather case that was clasped tightly by a silver button. He watched me as I slowly undid the single button. When I opened it up, I was surprised by its contents.