issues surrounding fathers never fail to disturb them. bodies in various states of decay rise to the surface when the field is tilled. some are mere skeletons, some have just enough flesh left to stink with decay and putrescence. they stare at me from empty sockets. their jaws unhinge and clack.
these hauntings. these old wounds. still suppurating and never fully healed.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
--
This entry was originally posted at
Dreamwidth. If you feel inclined,
comment there.