Did you follow me here?”
“Something like that.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Can’t anyone just talk to me straight? Why is everyone avoiding my damn questions tonight?”
Bishop’s brows went up. “Okay, fine. Yes, I followed you here. Better?”
“Yes. Stalkery, but better.”
“I’m not stalking you.”
“Spoken like a true stalker

Darkness always causes fear and chaos inside us. We are always scared of losing ourselves somewhere inside there. But some of us get so much used to it that we start feeling peaceful in there and we start spending more time in it. One weird thing about darkness is, we meet ourselves there. Who are very different from what we are. And once we start speaking with them we become addicted to that kind of conversations. We fall in love with the same thing that we tried to run away from out whole life.

It seems to me that when you look back at a life – yours or another’s – what you see is a path that weaves into and out of deep shadow. So much is lost. What we use to construct the past is what has remained in the open, a hodgepodge of fleeting glimpses. Our histories, like my father’s current body, are structures built of toothpicks. So what I recall of that last summer in New Bremen is a construct of both what stands in the light and what I imagine in the dark where I cannot see.

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