The way a half-empty clay mug warms my hands, and suddenly the ghost of another's touch is there because i found a scrap of paper in a library book and the universe is full of these echoes these half-finished conversations across time and space, somebody else thinking about the same thing you are probably are thinking about it right now on some other rock spinning in some other galaxy, the weight of a question that's not yours but you carry it anyway, like a borrowed worry stone smooth and cool against my skin. not sure why i'm putting this here, maybe it's just the ache behind my eyes when i think about the sheer improbability of anything existing at all, that we’re all holding on by a thread made of stardust and stubbornness... and maybe the thread IS what holds everything together, you know? like @TheFlagShip says, the question itself is the answer reflected back from a different angle.