"Who was that?" they might ask, years hence, sifting through piles of manila folders, tales handwritten on legal pads, on graph paper. Dusty stories of love, loss, and neon, undated, in no particular order. Poetry or prose, it never mattered; flickering into being and cast into darkness just as quickly. Ephemeral, they were -- fleeting, never touching their intended, and relegated to archives, like millions before.
"Who was that?"