on this ball of tangled string that he wears hanging from his neck like a pendant, like a beautiful locket or like an anchor. he won't cut his thread to untangle it, he can't, so he studies every twisting bend and he sees every possibility. it's like a radio with the cover removed, some unknowable mass of god-knows-what, murmuring softly to him in a language uncipherable to any ear but his, he is consumed. enchanting music, frightening words, thumping danceable rhythms and static noise. he's absorbed. it's his wisdom and his humor, he's an old soul and a curious child. as he walks along he works away on this knotted riddle with the passion of a sculptor, while the straight and untangled piece trails behind him, by tiny bits growing longer.
