But who can tell you if he is who he says he is? Who can know the wonders or mysteries behind that façade he puts up day in and day out; the outward treachery of friends, forgotten ones, and knowns? Who’s to say he’s telling the lie correctly?

When do the riddles begin to have a meaning? When can I find out where to begin? when I look around at the mess surrounding me all that I can find is slacks of yarn with no rhyme or reason, no ending or beginning. Why do I have to keep guessing my way around this entangled knot? I want to know the answers but I can’t even find the questions.

when do the trees start to talk and gain their wisdom from silence? what can the flowers and the grass teach me that doesn’t have a sound? why can’t I see what I lie about between the orders of rose and cardania?  When will I know what to ask the trees as they sigh away from the wind that rushes them off to more important things than I? Why can’t I simply ask what I mean to know and hear what I mean to listen?

I need silence before all of this, and my mind is too full of cobwebs to let the echoes still themselves.