A touch is an echo, which, like whispers, leave gentle tendrils of memory caressing the mind. Sound fades, grows distant, and becomes lost in the abyss that is the unknown, and the tender strokes become less and less remembered. Recollections of a touch linger only when it was felt as sweetly as a kiss or as sharply as an abrasion. Hailed, it lingers. Reviled, it lingers. Peripheral, it fades. When time scampers on and touches are felt and forgotten, it is often the faded for which we long the most.