My Hands Resemble Some Ancient

Stories Heard But Not Recalled. Letters Too. Words Filling My Head. Fragmenting Like Artillery Shells. Shrapnel, Like Syllables, Flying Everywhere. Terrible Syllables. Sharp Cracked. Traveling At Murderous Speed. Tearing Through It All In A Very, Very Bad Inreparable Way.

Anger Is One Way To Respond To Fear. I Say One Way Because Responses Are Categorically Multiple.

Knowledge Is Hot Water On Wool. It Shrinks Time And Space.

Tom Gets By, Navidson Succeeds. Tom Just Wants To Be, Navidson Must Become. And Yet Despite Such Obvious Differences, Anyone Who Looks Past Tom's Wide Grin And Considers His Eyes Will Find Surprisingly Deep Pools Of Sorrow. Which Is How We Know They Are Brothers, Because Like Tom, Navidson's Eyes Share The Same Water.

I Still Get Nightmares. In Fact, I Get Them So Often I Should Be Used To Them By Now. I'm Not. No One Ever Really Gets Used To Nightmares.