Every month or so he would stray from his narrow path, carrying a shovel. He would wander back into the forest--far enough to forget his path but not so far that he couldn't find this place again. He would take his shovel and dig up one single clump of dirt. When asked about this peculiar habit, he would profess his love for worms and filth but we all saw the bigger picture. His hole is big now. He climbs deep to the center of the earth for every pitch of dirt he claims, and I'm a little tired of climbing in after him.

As gravity is the boundary between the ocean and the shore.

As the eye is the boundary between light and darkness.

As a book is the boundary between religion and the religious.

As ideology is the boundary between the nationalists and the foreigners.

As weapons are the boundaries between the politician and his politics.

So these words are the boundary between you and I.

Theres black filth congregating in the crevice of every ninety degree angle in this building

The woodgrain in the floor invites me to melt into its stream down the hallway through the cracks into the grimy kitchen below

There are ghosts cooking there

Ghosts pacing the hallway where their corporeal form bade them farewell

Ghosts outside lifting weights and running calisthenic circuits

As though there were any merit in the shape of their supernatural form

As though the taste of chicken tenders and french fries still satiated their desire for self destruction

As though the world was still waiting for them, hand outstretched to

Wakeupeatgotoworkeatbacktoworkeat

Pay your bills

Sleep

This is no life for us ghosts -- we soon-will-have-beens -- we memories-waiting-to-fade -- we destined-to-be-soon-to-be-forgottens -- we clinging-to-what-is-nows

All who will not have ears one day had better listen.