The hours passing slowly. Pacing the floor, with bodies outlined in chalk. The rain outside ceaseless, aching bones, all too restless. Like the grave with spirits stirring within. Those who have gone before, all they want is to come back, to be warm once more. Being dead is lonesome; it’s a solitary pastime. On stormy nights when a glass of wine is waiting to be drunk, the spirits gravitate towards me. They call from across the void. Desperately clinging to my pale flesh, they beg me to them bring them comfort, a little companionship. And all there is, is to cling, dead or not. Everyone wants to be found. To belong, that’s what we’re all after. Even the dead need to be loved. I do what I can, but I dislike people, dead or living. My kind annoy me. Immensely. If I had my way, I’d be as far away from them as possible. Shipwrecked on some uninhabited island, or locked up in a prison cell long forgotten like Papillon. To be free of the burden of trying to fit in. Yet despite my lonesome nature, I still yearn for the touch of someone who loves me. Of someone who cares. It’s human nature I guess. Even the dead feel it. All the dead insects, chirping invisibly on the corner of every lonely street up and down the land. All the empty prayers, drifting up into the stratosphere. Evaporating. There doesn’t have to be a god for there to be ghosts, nor for there to be demons. Demons are secrets, not evil. Demons are dirty truth, just waiting to be picked at. Others would love to pick away, and maybe that’s the best way. To be free of guilt; to open up your arms and allow the sun to burn away sin. To be naked is painful. To gaze at your navel. It’s a shameful thing, but shame is what you are. Don’t lie, be honest. Smell yourself. Swim with the ghosts and surf that beach. All these lost thoughts from just looking out the window one night in January. Maybe they should remain lost, but somehow I feel compelled to capture them. What purpose do they serve, what possible good could they bring me. Maybe it’s all in vain. Yet somehow I don’t think so. As the rain pours and a train rumbles along in the unseen distance, I sit here with the dead dancing around me, joyful of my company when no one else was willing. One day I’ll be dancing with them too, desperately searching for someone like myself to cling to in the lonely hours, someone who’ll show a little compassion. The circle of what we are. Banality, futility. A little hope, a little love. Sitting here with the dead, discovering what it means to be on the outside, I close my eyes and smile as they caress my broken body and carry me towards the ones who want to dance with me the most.