I am an idea. I did not ask for your I.Q. or for a financial report; I did not see what you look like, for beauty was not required. I did not notice your size or ability nor did I check your intelligence-- I just wanted you. I did not even ask to live in your mind or in your heart or in your soul or even in your memory-- just on a three-by-five card in your pocket.

I am an idea. I could have changed your life; I could have made you successful; I could have made you a blessing or perhaps even renowned or important or prosperous. But I came to you one day-- you played, you partied, you slept, you even met me, but I was not important enough for immediate attention. You casually asked me to wait for a few minutes, but when you came for me, I was gone-- gone forever-- and to think I would have stayed if you had only taken a minute to house me on a three-by-five card.

I WAS an idea. I died in infancy. I now rest with many others of your children. My death was so needless. I wanted to live. We could have been so happy together. Now soon you will also die and few will remember you either, for the world will remember BOTH or NEITHER of us.

And to think, we both could have lived and been remembered if you had only housed me in any old pocket of any old shirt on any old paper.

Oh, by the way, have you noticed the epitaph on my tombstone? It reads, "He died for the lack of a three-by-five card."
Dr. Jack Hyles