Chuck Said, “hey. How Many Surrealists Does

There Are Threads In Our Lives. You Pull One, And Everything Else Gets Affected.

That's The Thing About Being A Victim; You Start To Think It'll Happen To You On A Regular Basis. It's Living With The Reality Of Your Own Vulnerability, And It Sucks.

Waking, After All, Was An Almost Natal State. You Surfaced Without History, Then Spent The Blinks And Yawns Reassembling Your Past, Shuffling The Shards Into Chronological Order Before Fortifying Yourself For The Present.

He Wondered If This Was What Clinical Depression Felt Like, A Total Numbness, A Weary Lack Of Hope.

It Had Occurred To Sean Once - On A Bender About Ten Years Before With Some Buddies, Sean And A Bloodstream Full Of Bourbon Turning Philosophical - That Maybe They Had Gotten In That Car. All Three Of Them. And What They Now Thought Of As Their Life Was Just A Dream State. That All Three Of Them Were, In Reality, Still Eleven-year-old Boys Trapped In Some Cellar, Imagining What They'd Become If They Ever Escaped And Grew Up.