Today I came into temporary possession of a packet of old writings.

Writings that I was convinced were truly gone for good. They had
disappeared years ago from their original place. Although I diligently
searched for them at the beginning, years passed and not a trace of
them was to be found. So I gave up.
But, today, in some strange stroke of luck I was offered what is
probably the only remainder of what they once were.

These pages were written by an old friend (or something to that degree)
and I am keenly aware that I am not ready to read them yet.

They will leave me feeling the same way he always did.
And I'm sure as hell not ready for that.