The piano goes on quietly, accenting the hollow disharmonious state of me (and the state of everything lately). Kismet begins to cast its shadow, I can feel the forthcoming departure and ruin, envisage destiny in black visiting again with a violent invasion. Or is it hopelessness I feel? Pessimism maybe? After all, I am a haunted cynic with a dilapidated trove of ghosts in her chest. But I am never fazed, having come from a place where pain was glory and glory was pain, I am made of anguish.
I feel bereft, or is it the piano projecting its melancholy music onto me? Or the night with its brooding darkness and stillness evoking long forgotten thoughts? I don’t know, but I don’t want the quiet to end, I want to seep into the sad piano and melt into the night and vanish…
Accounts of a Ghost 