I looked into his eyes. I saw darkness there, swirling vapors melting and reforming, yet seemingly motionless. His eyes were black, crystalline and emotionless. They were neither cold nor warm. I could hear ancient glaciers groaning and cracking, beset in the absolute stillness of his eyes. I saw vast swaths of powdered snow, untarnished by creature tracks. I wondered if he ever moved, if it was possible for him to move. I cannot speak to him. He cannot listen to me. And yet when I look into his eyes I hear something. It’s not a melody or an orchestra nor is it cacophony. It is not the sound of birds singing on a crisp winter morning. The machinations of humans have never touched his sightless vision. He is not aware of what we have done. Every time, before I go to him, I wonder if there is anything I should say. Any questions I ought to ask. And every time I look into his eyes, the words, the questions, the prior thoughts are just as some sporadic dewlets clinging to a soft patch of moss. They have not been denigrated, but they are also no longer clamoring for attention. To be with him is enough.