becoming ethereal, transparent,
flickering in the brain rot, my ghosts
have no sense of time nor place
I watch them
gazing thru the cut sheet into another world
down to the small shoe, the fading song
sounding out, circling the ballroom
again and again
until the dance tiptoes on
only in another's memory
we too will repeat the dance, one
more half-step towards
everything's end
becoming ghosts in the feedback loop.
- Harry Miller
Makes sense to me. As in life, so in death.