[It's all pounding and bleeding, one level of reality working into another and he could almost swear they're connected somehow, like the shit he's seen and the things this guy has seen are equally true and even connected. Shit, maybe even the same, all of it real or none of it ever real, the truth hiding somewhere in that darkness, or the truth being
(the whispered words, pronunciation that followed him from the slaughterhouse temple down the river straight into this unstable present)
empty echoes, and Jesus fuck his head's pounding again and all of this slips beyond grasp, coiling into an insurmountable ball of static into which no sight can pierce, its only resonance pulsed outward in darkness. Incoherence, impossibility. The hollow at the core of all.
Silence stretches the present, and Willard has to remind himself that he can't just keep the guy sitting there. Not after what had been said, or at least not in the face of the way it'd shake him and continues now to needle at his comprehension, frustrating all efforts to find some solid mental ground.]
Hell, I don't know a thing. [The words are out before he can take hold of them, and there's no choice but to let the statement stand. He can't deny the truth of it, or he won't, so he simply gives himself a moment to collect himself. Willard doesn't know whether he can do better, but hell, he can at least try. Because there's something too familiar in this man's voice and in the way he holds himself, all visible injuries aside.
And the words. Of course he knows, of course he recognizes, and how’s he supposed to speak when the closeness of it grips him with a growing nausea, when the talk of darkness and forever, everything that can’t be uprooted because it’s at the root…
He shouldn't be surprised to hear there's just as much darkness in the desert as the jungle. It'd be easy to blame the jungle, sure, say the madness spread from the heat or the depths or some force crawling behind and bred into the trees. Willard had believed it to be the truth for a while. Hadn’t doubted when commanders claimed the jungle had driven men to the desperation that bombed the hell out of a village on a whim, hadn’t doubted it’d been the jungle that had gotten into Kurtz’s head and left him broken.
But that wasn’t it. Isolation may force a man to turn in on himself, but it wasn't the jungle that brought madness to men. They'd brought it themselves, started setting fires just to get their rocks off and called it war to ease their minds. The darkness was never external; they’d just found a way to release it.
How the fuck is he supposed to tell that to a man who’s beat to shit and clinging to the edge of something devastating? How the fuck is he supposed to fix any of this in speech or mind when he can feel himself shaking?
Jesus Christ, just say something. He takes a breath, crouches beside Lugo.] That's a lot to spill, pal. [The statement is more reflective than anything, a way of working himself toward that massive confession and its questions.]
Like your daddy said, we've all gotta go sometime, whether we earn it or not.
There's a whole lot of insanity out there. A whole lot that doesn't make sense. You start thinking about it too much, you'll split your head in two.
[He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to Lugo. That isn't all of it, but he needs a moment to collect his thoughts, find the next words. Get a gauge on how the guy's taking it.
There's something he wants to know, badly, though he can’t say why or what it’d do: whether they’d found Konrad and what he’d had been doing out there in the first place. What that transmission'd been. The questions burn at him, but he’s got no reason to ask, and so they turn in silence, branching into his recollections, taking on a resonance Willard isn’t not sure he really wants to see.]
'twas well worth the wait, in-deed!
(the whispered words, pronunciation that followed him from the slaughterhouse temple down the river straight into this unstable present)
empty echoes, and Jesus fuck his head's pounding again and all of this slips beyond grasp, coiling into an insurmountable ball of static into which no sight can pierce, its only resonance pulsed outward in darkness. Incoherence, impossibility. The hollow at the core of all.
Silence stretches the present, and Willard has to remind himself that he can't just keep the guy sitting there. Not after what had been said, or at least not in the face of the way it'd shake him and continues now to needle at his comprehension, frustrating all efforts to find some solid mental ground.]
Hell, I don't know a thing. [The words are out before he can take hold of them, and there's no choice but to let the statement stand. He can't deny the truth of it, or he won't, so he simply gives himself a moment to collect himself. Willard doesn't know whether he can do better, but hell, he can at least try. Because there's something too familiar in this man's voice and in the way he holds himself, all visible injuries aside.
And the words. Of course he knows, of course he recognizes, and how’s he supposed to speak when the closeness of it grips him with a growing nausea, when the talk of darkness and forever, everything that can’t be uprooted because it’s at the root…
He shouldn't be surprised to hear there's just as much darkness in the desert as the jungle. It'd be easy to blame the jungle, sure, say the madness spread from the heat or the depths or some force crawling behind and bred into the trees. Willard had believed it to be the truth for a while. Hadn’t doubted when commanders claimed the jungle had driven men to the desperation that bombed the hell out of a village on a whim, hadn’t doubted it’d been the jungle that had gotten into Kurtz’s head and left him broken.
But that wasn’t it. Isolation may force a man to turn in on himself, but it wasn't the jungle that brought madness to men. They'd brought it themselves, started setting fires just to get their rocks off and called it war to ease their minds. The darkness was never external; they’d just found a way to release it.
How the fuck is he supposed to tell that to a man who’s beat to shit and clinging to the edge of something devastating? How the fuck is he supposed to fix any of this in speech or mind when he can feel himself shaking?
Jesus Christ, just say something. He takes a breath, crouches beside Lugo.] That's a lot to spill, pal. [The statement is more reflective than anything, a way of working himself toward that massive confession and its questions.]
Like your daddy said, we've all gotta go sometime, whether we earn it or not.
There's a whole lot of insanity out there. A whole lot that doesn't make sense. You start thinking about it too much, you'll split your head in two.
[He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to Lugo. That isn't all of it, but he needs a moment to collect his thoughts, find the next words. Get a gauge on how the guy's taking it.
There's something he wants to know, badly, though he can’t say why or what it’d do: whether they’d found Konrad and what he’d had been doing out there in the first place. What that transmission'd been. The questions burn at him, but he’s got no reason to ask, and so they turn in silence, branching into his recollections, taking on a resonance Willard isn’t not sure he really wants to see.]