Yellow, gray, and white. The colours of my stationary. I always return to the desk. And somehow, this is anything but settled. I understand how I write. The life on seen pages laying more still than letters of dead. No matter the monolith, the art of my palms, the back of my hands never go away. I understand it all, clearer than what I see. But your words, though I read them every day, I know not how they came. How is it that you wrote on my heart?