There's a strange familiarity to this reckless wondering. An internal wandering that is merely a symptom of something else. A deeper kind of dreaming darkness. And it is a comforting chaos that breathes and sings in a voice that I know. In a voice I've always known. It's a song I can sing by heart, even though the words are always changing. Even when there are no real words, just the illusion of them.

Are we fools? Are we too taken by our pride? We held a fallen miracle in our hands, a spark of sin and grace. But we shoved it aside in haste, out of ignorance and fear. And like a dog unjustly shut out in the night, it howls. Like a smokey memory, it haunts, clinging to each available breath. I don't know if there's any salvaging it. There's always trouble in excavating the past, in stumbling out into the fray. There's no way to prepare for the consequences.

And there are always consequences.