Once I was capable of emotion and action -- they were
snuggled nicely within my heart-pumping, brain-thinking body.
Now those feelings, sensations, and movements are very distant.
My life has since faded into the colorless fog of death.
Being a ghost is like being a cold rock buried in the earth. It’s
dark. It’s still. Movement occurs when something else moves
you— like a mother’s tear dropping through the ghost of her son,
moving him down in the wake of it’s path, settling him on the floor
around a warm splash of sadness.