Yet even in the loneliness of the canyon I knew there were others like me who had brothers they did not understand but wanted to help. We are probably those referred to as our brother’s keepers, possessed of one of the oldest and possible one of the most futile and certainly one of the most haunting instincts. It will not let us go.
Slowly we became silent, and silence itself if an enemy to friendship.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.