i'm reading suppose a sentence. it's about sentences. it says every sentence is like a ghost. ghosts hold the attention. wrought by attention, how otherwise would they appear. some haunt. others float like molecules. you breathe unknowing the sentence. clouds perhaps intuit. shapes that draw eyes up and away. i'm feeling bad. the weight of what i don't understand. if i could write one sentence that stayed. would i even know. i'm not that kind of writer. i'm the kind that recedes daily and gradually disappears even after insisting daily i'm here. i'm just holding a place. which is only the place i would inhabit simply existing. yet i insist. one thing about a sentence it might stand alone but it recalls other sentences in mind and anticipates others waiting. i have the urge to revisit, not to revise, but the way of going back to a place, a house or spot of earth, a place of residence buried in you, a place to dig, a soil that grows in memory. memory grows by remembering. what grows is present. a new dog recalls an old dog. i'm the one recalling. i'm like a sentence, a sentence is like a ghost. what grows persists in growing like a ghost grows like a sentence sentences present in the ghosted mind at present.