I'll tell you a secret.
You may think the past has something to tell you.
You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out it's whispers,
should bend over b a c k w a r d s, to stoop down low to hear
it's voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places.
You may think that theres something in it for you,
something to understand or make sense of.
But I know the truth: I know the nights of coldness.
I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of
trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together whats broken.
It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight.
Take it from me: if you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back
and running it's fingers up your spine, the best this to do - the only thing -
is run.