I obsess. I know that. But I find myself thinking there's something these people are trying to say to me, maybe something that was too painful to say out loud when they lived, and I can't help but think I need to find that thing. It may be ugly, but not shameful after everyone they knew is dead as theyy are. Choices they made, didn't make, didn't think were choices at all, but shaped them into the people they were. Forgotten by timen ow, but still jump out at me; folklore, yellowed pages of newspapers and chronicles that are a hundred plus years old. And maybe they're not interested in me knowing, but I'm reaching out, back through time, asking them to answer my questions, to delve into their unspoken, unknown thoughts, that I want to know the answers to.
You're worried about me, I know, I can sense it. I worry about me, too, but I'm still Searching For Bill Hill.