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The last time I visited the marble-white gallery, your name plate was still empty. After a lifetime of longing, searching and doubting there is finally a painting of you, and I know who - you are - With each passing year more and more paintings turn into phantom-mementos of those no longer with us; the only proof of their existence, remaining inside my heart. Every single one of them is - being missed - Your soul is not a delicate flower, a plaything amongst the elements. No, you are the oak at the forest's heart: Bold, strong, wiser than all who come before it and a source of love and life for all; a force of nature with an iron - will - A whirlwind of madness is what the world has come to. Or has it always been this way? And were we merely too preoccupied to notice? - Either way, amidst the raging insanity all I can think of is - you - A galaxy of words and thoughts we shared, yet what remained unsaid was a universe unto its own. I long for the kindness of your words and the