Notes

They return slowly, the words. They seep into your stream of consciousness nearly undetected at first, just whispers of something familiar and an uneasy stirring like you forgot the gas on. They build in your spine until they expand in your lungs, there's a flicker behind your eyelids as the lights come back on, everything smells of dust but more like a used books shop than something died. A typewriter roars to life. A story unfolds.  

Wretched lifelines stretch across your skin, gnarl your muscles into convoluted confusions, but no matter. You will live this life as it was given to you, as best you can, you will race across the world and into countless brick walls, because at the end of the day, when you have sweated and cried and bled, sometimes there will be a word, or two, or a string of sentences that make sense, and all your wear will wash away and you will be born anew.  

You have gone to the ends of the earth But you will come home some time.