He'd gone fishing.

When I stopped wondering about death—it found its way back by slipping itself through the broken window and took away someone I know yet not at all, but sure had been nice. What is then, not being around; not breathing and not dreaming. Living in someone else's memory is not exactly an absolute existence is it? The memories, they expire and are non-transferable afterall. What's left ultimately perhaps is nothing but some numbers and alphabets on paper or on stone. This person—us—will be gone. Gone where? I am alive, for now but have yet to find the courage to be.