A Conversation, One-Way, Through Squirrel Knots

He sat opposite you with words in a tumble like squirrel knots, snaggled around his head—and he built them as he sat, built, strained crazy patterns like a patched quilt—and calmly patted his hand on the table. Reasonably, hiccuping one splintered second; rationally, tying gordian knots into theses he laid out. Calmly. 

Did he say, you understand too? Mostly, no. Mostly, he declaimed. And you try not too gaze too quizzically at the growing stand of thorns bands, squirreling confusion in...