These words are passing. Not through memory, not through tongue, but through their brief moment in time... not even known to be forgotten. Not a rushing wind, but a slight breeze - too slight to be perceived.
We crawl through these lives, trying to grasp these experiences - trying to fathom how they could be so easily lost if not retold. We express these things so that our lives might live on in another form, but an unread page is just a page... the life living on its surface starves if not given attention, and the experiences we were trying to preserve manage to fade away. Our lives are slipping through our fingers, and art is a vain attempt at maintaining our grasp.
You see, expression doesn't prolong the experience; it only lives if transferred into new experiences as others witness the art. These experiences are its children, and it lives through them, but even then, its true nature is lost. Each child carries the taint of the eyes that birthed it, twisting and mangling the art with its touch on their own lives.
These words hold no recollection of the life they reflect. They hold hints and traces - things to be interpreted... or more likely, overlooked.