Travelling Between the Spaces

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less-
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is
I have it in me so much nearer to home
To scare myself with my own desert places

Robert Frost
Desert Places

I remember last night-- a fleet of buildings going past, mired yet pitching, caught in their stone sea. I remembered how Forget had painted a human face on each one, each line deeper than the last, etched in granite skin. This must be how it is to be forgotten... to be remembered by but a precious dwindling few. In its failing, Memory turns catalyst, a crust of sepia and dirt begins to settle. It is like rust in the temporal plane. I imagine that, here in this dead sea, with its grimy windows and stained walls, dust would cling a little more stubbornly to its corners and its cobwebs made of sterner steel. Lethe, though with sluggish feet, overtakes us in the end and makes for us this coccoon, I wondered.
I bid them fare well, although in its futility may they find some degree of comfort (no matter how borrowed from what prevailing Sentiment, from what maudlin thought).