It's Sunday night. 10 O'clock. The ghosts love this hour, they do they do they do.

There, put your hand on my hand. Watch the little wedge move around the board. Will you lie to me now? Or is it the spirit who's lying? Feel my hand it's shaking. What to ask them, the ghosts?

I used to turn the volume of the computer all the way up when I went to sleep. Sometime around two or three in the morning the chime would wake me up. A ghost would write to me, "I'm thinking of you. Sunday night is the worst night."

That ghost walked right through the wall. No chime now I just hear all of them scuttle in the walls.

Where do you go when you drift off like that? Where do you go, where do you go?

I want to walk on the back of the ghosts, walk to somewhere. Somewhere. The ghosts' backs are like horses made of molten ice. My bare feet on their backs the ice climbs my spine. My mouth frozen in the shape of a shoulder blade. A body's blade. I can see where it should stretch into wings, I put my mouth there, in the air.

I put my hand on the ghosts' faces. Always, always trying to remember. The white fire makes those lines on my palms. Trying to remember the shape of a face. I remember I remember.

This ghost has sixteen arms: pull me apart and put me back together. The ghosts get into your veins. I can't remember their faces with my palms. The lines make shapes in the air. Where do the voices come from? Where am I going, blades in my mouth? When the ghosts walk through the walls they make doors. I walk through the doors and into new rooms. There are more ghosts in the rooms. The ghosts and doors and rooms unfolding into frothy ether, like a spinal column.

This makes the body of a bigger ghost, a million palms all pressing the faces of all the other ghosts in the world. I try to fall into the ghost mass but I fall into the frothy ether instead.

I remember I remember do you remember? Listen to what the wedge says on the board. What are the names written on the bones of my shoulder blades? A litany of ghosts, a list of ships. I ride the ships into the wine dark sea.

Remember. Where do you go? There are ghosts in the mirrors in the restaraunts. And chiming, chiming. I don't hear the chiming anymore. It's chiming somewhere else.

The ice in my hands and it disappears. My hand alone on the wedge with the little window in it. It just skitters to 'No.'

No.

No.

Ask again later.