Digitally scrutinized eyeballs swollen over digging digits sink finitely into well broken dirt. Rows of spells over mispelled incantations, bubbling up over toasting candelabra, splendidly calling to disinterested spirits. Seance blathering daily straining the coils of life and love constraining lost souls who frankly couldn't give less of a shit. Five minutes of oohing and aahing, nickel in the tip jar and relief, the ectotourists are gone.

Not a single damn given for the loss of past and present relatives, souls dankly jangling between their own misplaced virtues might want to leave buried treasure where it lies, and porn mags untouched. Why is it wrong to exhume a body, but not a soul? Maybe the eternally restless need their forty thousand winks, maybe gypsy cribbing and noob magic is as offensive as it is smelly. Either way, ghastly concerns are gathered and horded, not herded into cloudy quartz balls. The unascended have a full schedule of turning pages and upsetting spiderwebs to give much of a fuck about blood pleas from terror towns, demons invoked or whatever little Bobby wants. Ghastly, indifferently, they bubble thrown stones into windows for the sake of the follow through, sageless and wandering, wanton, unwanting and fully terrified of one another. Dull souls simmer down to simple astral have-naughts, idiot motes sweeping through the tiny capillaries of the lifestream.

Craftless, you can grift their sentiment with the shittiest sob story as they drift through your AC ducts and kitchen. Whisper ancient kitsch to nostalgic nodding apparitions, or bleed their unliving hearts dry with the most tragic, tiniest violin. Note, you might have to look up top 40 of the 1890s if you want your townhouse clear, centurials love to singalong, till it sweep through the walls like a petrifying anglerfish, body unseen and terror implicit in the singular brightness of its bait, one behemoth monster, the hunter of haunters who gobbles up the purgatorial and weak, the spiritually sickly, bearing no sickle, only a toothy, kinless grimace.

But until it sets upon you, dream silently and roster your grievances. We're all dead here, why can't we just get along?

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