Somewhere back there, everything exploded all at once. Floating over a ravine, gravity only waits on the coyote for so long before the great fall. In ungoverned chaos, untreated trouble reared it's head and would not be denied it's gauntlet any longer. The unwritten, now unable to be tucked safely between the folds of time, became a swirling storm that violently roused me from some slumber whose exit would have otherwise remained a daydream — an overarching ache. I found myself in some strange return to zero - a little-death where I knew not what in the old world was real, and what wasn't. I had to go to therapy; I had to do something about all of this. I was so confused, I didn't know what was real; I couldn't trust the world as it was. In case of trouble, ruin was rewritten. This here, these little lighthouses would shine on, peppered across a decade or more. These red threads and breadcrumbs, older attempts at winding ways through life's labyrinths, were all part of a formative era. Who can say what they mean now, or what memories might visit them in the long stretch. All the sweet voices of those who used to visit still sing their songs within, ringing in a distant chorus, as if remembered of dreams.
