There’s a song, a whisper that slowly crescendos, laying flat against itself while quietly dancing in between its own notes. Often, so subtle and gentle, we become the very thing we aspire to be. We get to be the notes and the in-between-ness of everything all at the same time.
A rose simply remembered doesn’t quite intend well. She’s not fragile, nor do her petals dictate to the sun. She exists within the notes of every concerto, but also she carries the notes in between that often begin with a whisper. See, a rose remembered is never simply remembered, as she is created. A rose remembered only knows of itself in this way.