Sometimes, I dig up the past. And with it comes up tangled the pasts of others. Some were not in my past, but in my present, but still their memories mingle with mine and muddy the water so that we cannot see through to the next moment. Some were in my past, but are not in my present, and their rotting teeth threaten the now, desiring so desperately to cling onto my now uprooted memories. And unseen, the monsters of the future lie in wait, ready to entwine themselves with the rest of use, and choke what potentiality remains there. To those who were there all along:
This is desolation. All that could have been. I have killed so many possibilities, I have shown no mercy to a multitude of presents and futures. And the past shows me no mercy.
These eyes are so big and hollow. Gaping in desperation - they wish to be fed.