Las Colinas, Texas

Such a delicate thing, memory. Fragile, fleeting, shimmering heat on a lonely strip of asphalt. Shadowy, fading, flickering fires on a cold, rainy day. Glaring, slicing, breath-startling headlights on a deserted stretch of nowhere. But secreted between the broken concrete, the molten fissures, the scraping metal to bone glass to flesh — lays unfathomable truth.

A choice to be made.

Traverse the wilds, probe the visceral depths, stare into the roiling maw — or duck into a side street. Say it never mattered. Subconscious is a liar anyway, a tempestuous riptide struggling for control, dredging stagnant waters. But the dead stay below the surface no more than evil stays outside locked doors.

Such a charlatan, memory. Beautiful as gossamer strands of angel hair, guileless as the slackened braids of a cat o’ nine tails. Willfull. Dangerous. And unerringly persistent.

Music: Through Glass by Stone Sour (lyrics)