Who knows. Who really knows.

I stand at the edge of an abyss, smoke curling from the blackness within. I know not why I am there. Should I care?

The fumes from the bottomless pit are sickening, but I do not move. Why would I?

The forest surrounding the enormous hole whispers, creaking and rustling, terrible secrets laughing from ancient tree to ancient tree. I barely hear them, barely notice their dry, cracked voices. Do they speak to me? How should I know?

I am alone, maybe. I have no care if I am not. There is only I, before the pit, and the forest about me. I wish the voices would cease, but I do not move. How can I? How can I?

I suppose I have just escaped the abyss. There are burns on my body, yet I feel no pain. Why would I? I am newly free, but still I stand, not frozen in fear, or rooted in dread—Only standing. I do not move. I do not move.

Above me, the sky might be clear. I have not seen. Do I not care? Why won’t I care?

Why am at here? Why do I linger? Am I alone? Why do I not know? Whose are the voices?   I do not know. I do not know. How can I? How can I?

Who knows?! Who knows?!

Who really knows.