This post is simply a call into the void. I am listening for the echo. As my voice bounces of the ever widening gaps, I hope to hear something returned. I seek out the sound of even a whisper, the faintest evidence that I can still do this. That I have not lost the ability to place words onto the page, that I can still hear the music of ink.
The gaps are large now, and I look out upon them ever growing fear. So I call out, hoping to hear something. The sound of my words returns, soft as a whisper. Despite the terrifying gaps of time, in an instant, they have transcended their depths. Now they soar once more, and I can hear songs like birds in the air.