Whispers from the second grave manifest themselves into zits upon my face. Creatures in quarry are asking “Do you speak my mother tongue, or are you just f*#@ing with me? Are you willing to jump the proverbial gun, or is it too high to see over?” Whispers are a hindsight once lost behind the maggots and larva in the deep depths of your mind. All crawling over one question: “Do you speak my mother tongue, or are you just f----------with me? Are you willing to jump the proverbial gun, or is it too high to see over?”