they say that one cannot split form from content, that content makes the form, and that form makes the content. the way one thing exists is also (obviously) the existence of that thing. if i shout or if i cry or if a whisper the same words, the sentences are not the same, because the feeling is different, because the form is different. they also say that mourning is work, the slow process of dealing with a sudden absence: it demands efforts. i keep the forms, that's my work. the shoes, the piece of paper, the things left behind stay in the same place. the hope of sunny days, of an open time to come, is embedded in the buildings, the streets, the houses, the seas, and the sky. i keep them. even after the content is not there anymore, at least the form will be. and i see it. and i imagine it. and i smell it. it's not denial, but a way of letting my affect slowly spread onto other places and things, to detach from its previous forms until it is everywhere and the pain is stored somewhere different, closer to the love. it takes time, and it takes breathing. that's my way of keeping the future alive, the future of a world, the future of the world as i imagined it to be, the future of my world too: inside, outside. of keeping alive, of moving even in times when my body feels so heavy, and my eyes keep constantly asking to be closed.