I ask the dead to teach me to tell the truth. But they say that they cannot.
Deep within the sepulchric depths of their Temple, as I shiver in a cold that dead flesh and bone can no longer feel, they tell me that they cannot tell me the truth because all things already know it.
They tell me that the truth is an ugly thing: naked, hard, and cold. In its purest form it is sterile at best, and inevitable to its highest degree: like a dull pendulum blade or a lump of unrefined ore embedded within a living heart.
No, they tell me that they cannot tell me what I already know. But, they say that they can teach me how to tell the truth.
And I realize that this is what I wanted all along: to clothe that stark objectivity in all the raiment that a philologist’s treasury can offer.
But mostly, I want the knowledge: to know what I have to say to those I love, and to know what to say to myself in the nights long after.
Because, in the end they, the dead … they tell the most excellent of stories.