And suddenly it meant nothing, he had seen the dust settle on the letters. This was a disappearance he had always feared, not the disappearance of the lost or of the longing, but the disappearance of the things near, things that stop speaking, things that turn dust long before their expiry date. He did not know that words expired too, that they died when touched with brittle hands, for they are long ensconced in our desires and memories, that they stop teasing us the moment we are far from our longing. He wanted to scribble it all on the letters, make a note of their dates, and the time when they arrived, and his feelings with them. But he was tired of a waiting that never ends, it was his tirade against time and hope that had crippled him and made him their slave.