There’s a silence in this room that my thoughts can’t fill. They spill out of my ears, eyes, and mouth and evaporate in hazy wisps of ideas. Where do they go, these ideas? I’m not sure. I mean, where does an idea go that isn’t recorded or remembered? Is there a place where time engraves such notions? In the caverns of memory, is there a trove of insights waiting to be discovered?

Perhaps, and perhaps there’s a person there who looks after them. Like an old lighthouse keeper, she lives a simple life. She brews her tea, goes for strolls, watches the day go by and generally minds her business. Once, a man stopped by and asked for directions to that place where forgotten thoughts reside, and she pointed him in the opposite direction.

When the coast was clear, she went to the place and pulled out a thought, scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt. She’d seen this one before and smiled, a mona lisa smile, a knowing smile. I wish I could remember what it said.

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