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.