There are two stones on the living room window sill,

I don't remember how they got there;

I suppose I found them somewhere, and their smooth roundness was pleasing to my senses. 

I have always collected things. They hang around, long after their provenance is forgotten: it's a sort of death of its own I suppose: these objects bereft of their meanings become like carcases. 

There are two stones on the living room window sill; I no longer remember from whence they came, nor why I held onto them, but now, I'll keep them nonetheless.  

After all, on their surface may still linger some stray molecules of your living breath.