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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

My past has always been like a dimly recalled dream. But to
be perfectly honest, I’ve preferred it that way. I feel it’s the
way things ought to be—to have no solid starting point, no
fixed center, no clear definition. This way, one is not beholden
to pattern or circumstance, the trajectory of the mind is free
to wander. Patterns over time lead us to become machines—
action starved of thought, repetition deprived of meaning.
As soon as the doldrums become automatic, we die into the
process of living. Given this rationale, one would think I’d
forget about my mysterious past and occupy myself only
with the business of repairing dreams, as I always had. But
secrets have power, as Tom Hush had well demonstrated.
And this secret, whether I liked it or not, was affecting me.
Specifically, it was causing me to doubt myself. Perhaps
the greatest killer of art, besides cold reality, is doubt. Tom
opened an artery in me, and I was bleeding out. I needed to
close the wound.
The role my mother played in all of this seemed
significant, as it appeared my actions were somehow scripted
by her, intending more from me than I was aware. Whatever
the case, the signpost to understanding my mother’s agenda
clearly pointed in a single apocalyptic direction—Marvin
the man-monster.
After a few days of regaining my strength within the
ample shadows of Nighthead, I began the task of finding
him. As I traveled channels of forgotten darkness throughout

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