historys_solace werewolf he remembers their names, inscribes their faces, tattoos dates across their chests like they are his toy soldiers, like he is given a key to knowing them, to averaging out the activities of their years and days into themes. all of it is driven by a horror. the past cannot be lived again, the future must come. he has seen a million answers as to how, as to where, as to when, but he lacks the final piece in his collection. he runs to knowing how things work, what makes a gatling different than a flashlight, when each can stop a man cold and when each can't. he wants to think they were different than him, marching on, or delegating, or loving on the banks of the nile, with a passion purer than the shame of defeat. he wants to think that they believed in their themes, that there was horizons, not just this tightening spiral, this throat closing in on itself. unable to hand history over to others, he seeks to know what cannot be known, and drowns in indecision. 030617 ... . . 031214 what's it to you? who go blather from