He intoxicates me with his raw thoughts streaming through my dreams. Sometimes they’re clear as a bell and other times I’m lost to him. And when I am, I whisper questions in his ear like where has my magic gone. He’ll laugh under his breath and through his nostrils then tap my little nosie. It’s here, I just know it. So I ask him to dig, but he’s too busy picking the skin around his nails. Lately I just haven’t had the mind for it. I strip naked and get lost in thoughtlessness. Just space between my ears. So much so that heaven itself barely matters. The ghosts, they prepare my baths and I haven’t the mind to acknowledge even the scariest of them. Take my knives and my pitchforks, take the cauldron, they are of no use to me during this dry spell. But I’ll tell you, when it returns, and it will, I will be calling for them. So don’t build your house on my processions. And with that, I heard him clear as a bell.

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