Of tombstones and totem poles

In ignorant night, we turn inward, to the lost spaces in the storerooms of the heart and the found things in the back rooms of the mind, to touch again and tell as beads that which we had shoved aside–the laborious marks, the snail-slime of our lives.
 
Those marks we make remain personal totem-poles, so that we say, so he lived, and so she died, and so shall we fetishize her paltry song. For the measure of that life was its passing.