Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.

Everything was good. But it was awful, too.

I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

***A Last note from your narrator*** I am haunted by humans.