I obsess. I know that. But I find myself thinking there's something these people are trying to say to me. Not the famous people, they've been done. I mean the forgotten souls that haunt the outskrts. The souls haunt, and they're haunted, too. 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. Not any more. After all, everyone they knew is dead, as they are. Choices they made, didn't make, didn't think were choices at all, but shaped them into the people they were. Forgotten by time now, but not by me. They 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.