Worms and Riddlers

  The fat diary, sitting on his table. He could barely read the chaotic scribblings, the dusty pages, the cracked lines, and the damage to the cover. The inscribed detail, the thousands and thousands of words. The man who had owned it was dead. Killed himself in a lonely apartment, near upper Manhattan. A single gunshot wound... Found with blood everywhere, staining the beautiful bedsheets...Buried in an unmarked grave... One momentary glance and he had taken it, hid it underneath his thick raincoat, across the road, silently trudging... It was a beautiful little book, with a strange allure to it... A fantastic grandness to it, with its fading gold... The words rushing through the pages... He flipped open the first page, saw the date, and stared at the title. January 1st, 1999. I know everything... Everything... Every day, the moment, the present, the strange past... I know every detail in every view... I can tell the number of flits the fly that lives in my lonely apartment makes... H

  The hunter could not remember his name… He barely remembered what he looked like anymore, just fuzzy hallucinations, the workings of his mind falling away quietly… Only remembering a stone labyrinth… A beautiful stone labyrinth… That rose from the ashes, formed a great symbol in the sky, webbed with red veins, and a massive beating heart that formed across the crescent moon… Vivid hallucinations, sharply caressing his shattered memories. He remembered visiting the labyrinth, walking across the barren earth, again and again, and again and again… With stone arching across the night, the lines, the earth, forming stone, and then rising up and up, along the ground, up into the air, and he ran by himself… All alone… Into the rapidly growing night… … It was the same day over and over again, walking around and around… His memory was regenerating, going around the circle of days, again and again. He touched his face and wiped away the dirt. His legs and his hands were covered in blisters. A