Sooner or later, all possible scenarios ferment. Ghosts have a mission to reconcile their inactions. That didn’t beat well with an unexpected event. Yeah, yeah. Ghosts wander about in the kitchen and bedrooms, fueled by grudge. They roll your vegetables off a cutting board and crumple your duvet inside its sack. They dwell in the space of routines, Trying to distract the myopic livings from seeming productivity. Mindless domesticity recalls the time when they were alive, avoiding. Ghosts tag the symbol of procrastination beneath bedside chairs and inside the neglected mortars and flower vases. Objects, in turn, urinate on the foggy bottoms of the ghosts’ clothing, So that all other ghosts smell your location at their biweekly board meetings in the woods.
