It's been many months since I've thought in narrative. Since I've walked up stairs with a new description for every step. And now, as I find my inner voice, memory fails, and I'm left dull and lusterless in front of my computer screen, typing and deleting, wondering if I should be writing at all.
And yet, I crave the familiarness of writing--of words dancing, colliding, meandering across the screen with the determination of erosion over the great monuments of Egypt.
I must begin by telling you that shrouds are heavier than earth.