One Forgets That One Is One. I

I Believe The Structure Of 'house Of Leaves' Is Far More Difficult To Explain Than It Is To Read. And While I'd Like To Lay Claim To Some Extraordinary Act Of Originality, Truth Is I'm Only Taking Advantage Of Capabilities Inherent In Everyone.

And Where There Is No Echo There Is No Description Of Space Or Love. There Is Only Silence.

My Hands Resemble Some Ancient Tree: The Roots That Bind Up The Earth, The Rock And The Ceaselessly Nibbling Wordms.

Write What You Love. Love Will Hold You Through The Hard Times And Hold The World During The Good Times.

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.