Am trying to remember something of weight, but there is too much memory and not enough mass in me to hold it down. It has always been like this. A landscape to echo with ghosts. I chase the unborn story to gap the river where I run from where form became content and then the content of a drawer, then a server somewhere. In this temporary light I’d like to trace a moment well enough to land the flight of contents back to form. I crave order too, but pretense angers. Same with heads in the sands of running time and the cloying sweet of certain seeming niceties, which from where I stand tend to have the effect of sticking to the otherwise transparent bodies of ghosts around here until they are ghosting around looking gaudy and ridiculous in candy pinks with spun-sugar hair and sequined eyes. I would prefer that the ghosts at least could retain some seriousness, some biting awareness of chasm between life and death even as they blur through them. Ghosts are fine company when not costumed undead.
