there are ghosts and there are the ghosts of ghosts, and behind them hosts hanging stout in the cieling stains and the this close to almost under the warping floorboards. They all come together to dance a little dance macabre, here where the wind has been absent for days the biscuit dense fog furls out of the delta and honeycomb swirls about those shorty hills masquerading as mountains, and then the high buildings masquerading as organic landscape, parade parched on the changing horizon, only the sun is a constant, and only if he is barely that.

I had a three martini dinner, I am running the bath. Just for me and my ghosts, we will be parfumed and annointed and no one is going to lose their head, not just yet. I am hoping that all that hot water is going to unclench the muscles in my back where my wings should be, and all that residual tension I carry so closely to my heart... I have had my heart ripped from me and I am not sure that I have taken the right exit, and I've a surfeit of anger in my molars, all the real and true physical ailments that bedevil me in a ghost's wake, I take deep breaths and turn in the sheets. My ghosts are all quick and porpoise fine, crouched over the future, clad in the resolute firmaments of the past. They are just memories after all, it's no talisman and it's no prophecy. It's just a little of residual love, it was the headiness of a deep crush, it's a lot of me and a lot of you, and it gets as good as gone with the deep morning fog about as our heads as a weighty and shapeless chandelier.