Monday.Ghost.



I sit in the mausoleum and wait. I see Souls neatly tucked away, folded under skirts and into boots. I see our god tick slowly on the wall, his hands red on white. Mouths mulch lunch in pastry faces. Little lips line up. I go to the window and tap my fingers on the lid of our glass coffin . I see a green shoot in the concrete and I see myself back. I see all of us back but I don't know if you can. I float along the corridor, brown envelope in hand. No destination. I am transparent as I pass through each body, my paper heart flutters and brushes against stone.

 I know I am the observer, but who is observing me. I am haunting myself as I walk among the dead. I am invisible and glide amongst you as you nod and talk and worry, all grey photocopies of yourselves. I go to the rubbish bin and search for us, I hope to find an instruction manual that will help us get back, I hope to find big coloured prints of us breathing at the bottom of the pile.

I find nothing.

 I go to the glass again and rest my head. I untuck my soul and turn. I have seen my observer.

Have you?

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