My dear friends can attest that I scare easily.
And I tend to personify everything, anything.
It was an unusually gusty day even for the desert. Up on the hill road a titanic trampoline compete with safety net has jumped its retainer wall and is bouncing across the road. The weight of it’s own landing has bent the legs and formed knee joints that look like Pop-eye’s elbows. The aberration has crushed on its weight and looking like a monstrous bogey spider scurrying as the wind skitters it across the blacktop.
Ghost in the machine.
Give up the hallowed ghost.
The animating spirit of us all.
He hoped he would be able to mind his own business in the hereafter, she had made that very VERY CLEAR.
“If you die before me, do not come back if you feel the need to tell me something, DO NOT haunt me. I will not understand. I will quickly and simply say, GO TO REGRESSION.”
Ghosts before breakfast.
These mornings I wake up before the break of day. I’ll sit in this predawn darkness, resisting the impulse to do anything. It’s now that I remember people, their words, the sound of their words and the color of the sound. Each harkens back to a ghost of a memory, trips back, skips back farther and farther until there is no place else to go, except round to the now. And I like to wonder why, through this mental synaesthesia, I thought of them today, this minute.
"I want to go to heaven without dying to hear Judy Garland sing."
Never sleep under a used pall without sageing it first.