What are we more than an idea, a thought, a speck of dust? What are we more than a bunch of memories scattered here and there? If we are lucky enough, people will remember us after our departure, but don’t depend much on that because people have a tendency to forget. If we are poets, people might write things about our poetry and about our poems. Why things change? Why nothing lasts forever? Why words are words and things are things? What is real? What isn’t real?