All the thoughts become tangled, crossing over into each other, twisting their arms together, joining hands, becoming one. I have no idea which thoughts were growing and which were stagnant, which were flush with life and which were brittle and broken. It is all scratching at broken ideas and unfinished sentences, pawing at the blank spaces between fragmented paragraphs.They reach across the space that once separated them, seeking each other out, fingers in search of something other than what they are, even if its destructive. The snapping and crackling as they clash and fight before giving is maddening and I welcome the quiet that comes when they’ve bridged the gap, even if it means I no longer understand anything those old bones are telling me. The tangled quiet is better than the cacophony of noise.