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He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head; that maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places.
He clutched the ground and waited for the world to stop moving. Not that it ever would: that was one thing you found out when you were stoned, or wasted, or feverish, that the world was always turning, and that only a healthy mind could block out the sickening whirl of it.
The dead pull the living down.
If Hell was anything, it was talk radio ... and family.
‘All the world is made of music. We are all strings on a lyre. We resonate. We sing together. This was nice. With that wind on my face. When you sing, I’m singin’ with you, honey. You know that, don’t you?’
