Semi-Daily Scribbles

I can't pretend I don't see them. Family that have moved on. They could be pulses of energy shot out of overloaded neurons. Tracers with faces that bear the same mix-and-match features as my own. Hereditary, by all accounts. The trailing vine of ancestral knowledge is wrapped around my spine. Gnarled fingers point in one direction. Hoarse voices repeat the answer.

"The end remains the same. Fluid are the steps that lead to the fixed star."

I can't pretend I don't understand.