Raw Glyphs II.

Before I died, challenge and quest were the engine driving my days. The nights felt infinite and I modeled life after them. Two decades of reaching toward spirits led me to the cusp of death. I never knew the hands that wrested me from those waning moments, yet many dutiful fingers guided me toward the sneaky castling whereupon my rook delivered checkmate. The ghosts of Tikal gathered in a vast jungle of stars. So ended my first b'ak'tun; and began the next. At the same time twenty-four years old and zero, facing a world of staggering mystery and pain, I strove to be mentally well (enough to decipher my first life through memo travelogues). The account of my journey lay buried in collected leaves of paper, etched with black ink and piled in a bin I came to know as The Vault. Brain bleed rendered conversation difficult, and I entered into dialogue with myself. Each aged notepad spoke a story of my own life–uncensored, unreal, the truth. Though often feeling social pariah, I found home with ghosts. This is the archæology of my lives.