i'll make a boy out of you, man

Peter Was a Liver
SENT TO A FRIEND - 9:00 AM - 3/5/2010

The way he looked into the water reminded the ghost of the body he recently left. It was not that the ghost looked the same, or kept the same longing look for the river; rather, the way he crawled up to stare at the lakeside caused him to remember the dear existence of his body. The ghost did not miss flesh, as touch and sensation remained the same, enabled to rip his fingers into the ground until the soil tore and slipped beneath his nails. The ghost hung his body above the water, still sticking his fingers into the dirt where he once knew warmth and responsibility. Every matter about him was dead and death. The body died to stay in death forever. The ghost continued to hover over, seeing the way striped clothing showed movement in the water where it was still on top. The ghost blinked. The ghost pretended breath. The body did not move. The hours were drowned in his milk-shaded eyes. A new beauty in the time of day sprung above the clouds, and was blocked by millions of particles gathered in no one's mourning. He could feel no tire in his bones which were not permissible to strength. It would take more than a falling berry from the branches above to create reaction in the marrow. Three weeks spilled out of earth, the ghost remained at the river. And people spoke stories of this ghost, and they made rumors about supernatural ability. But they never found Peter's body like Peter's ghost did.

The message I attached to the story above, in an email: No one else cares to read what I write, therefore I wrote you this as a way to say thank you. Also because I'm in my room and my roommate's boyfriend has no shirt on. It'll take my mind off the irritation. (Update: My roommate is sleeping and I'm listening to Ulrich Schnauss. Ha. This has also been in my drafts for more than two weeks I suppose. A little over I suppose.)

I suppose!