Hey, grandpa. Well, technically, great grandpa but who has time for that many words? My hearts runnin' on empty, you see, and you know a thing or two about hearts. Do you know what time it is? If Marguerite heard me on the phone, she'd have my head. Well, let me just tell you, I haven't heard from my best friend in a month. I'm starting to think ill never be able to feel my fingers again. I'm really starting to think that I'll never be able to tell pink from gray again. I'm starting to see ghosts, grandpa. They're these big, melting wax figure, mummified soldier, lighthouse-eyed things. They smack the air with the scent of carrion and roll in the smashed jaws of a mother opossum, snaggle-toothed roadkill no one mourns. Their eyes drip puddles on the floor. You'd know something about this, right? 1943, does it ring a bell? Hey, no. You can't hang up. You're the only one who's seen this type of ghoul. If you heard the way their voices overlap and churn like the great belly of the ocean, you'd see where the twang of my heartstrings echoes. You need light, candelabras, great fire places, the first four light bulbs Edison ever spoke into existence. The sun will rise and set again, but UV light only can reach so deep under our apostate skin. Watch as the universe burns itself into place, and keeps you in the eye of all of it. I felt the subtle ghost of my hands plunge deep into my chest, and find my heart a new home.