The first thing you will forget
      Is the voice, a form
And not a substance.
            The soul
Remains a jumble,
      Some errant
Experience. (Each is tortured
In his separate hell,
      For we are crowded
In our solitudes — many —
            But all divided
By a wall.)
Scarcely a fiftieth
Of what you take in
Will be assimilated.
The rest will vanish
      Through breathing,
            Evaporation,
                  Or some such.

Prove
That I was here.