The ghosts all go the moment uou open you eyes. this is "true".

its not unusual to notice them sneaking into the woken hour of the day, they occur inbetween and sleepy blink. the sjutters go down and in the dark behind your eyes there is a black stage with two people on ir. one is knwwling and loooking down. thwy are both dressed.

The one on the right sees you seeing them and turns away, and back with a large chipboard board. it is the size and shape of a cupboard door. these two charaters, lets call them actors, are three feet away from each other. the one with the board lifts it up. up over her head with her arms fully extended. she is a her, yes, you notice that everone on the stage in your theater is a she.

with the board held high, she looks like that model on tv, the one that walks around the boxing ring while violent men bleed in the corner and sip on spoons of water. this woman, our "she" takes a step toward the other woman. then she takes another step, and then she is immediately infront of the kneeling woman. she is looking at you still. all this time she was walking one deliberate step at a time she was watching you, with a vacant expression of unforfulled approval. she slmabs the board down with a crack and lifts it up over her head again.

the other woman recoils in shock and pain, but she does not get up and run away. she holds her face with one hand, for a moment then drops the hand to her side once again to sit kneeling. apart from the horrible crack there is no other sound. there is a very low awkward pause in the poisonous silence, which is broken with another crack, and another as the one woman beats the other mersilessly with strikes at regular intervals, until the kneeling woman is bleeding and dripping blood on the floor. then the beating stops. the wooden board resting on the kneeling womans head.

the shock makes you open your eyes in horror. less than a half second has passed. all that ugliness occured within an extended blink of the eye. the cup of tea is steam a little on the desk.

you close youre eyes, to see how the scene ended, but nobody is there. there is no theater, no actors, nothing at all. there is no trace of the unconscious intruders that captivated your attention and inflated the passing of time.

the remaind of the day sweeps into the forefront of your woken mind, and chores and tasls and unriations swallow time insatiably untill the sun gets heavy and drops to the horizon and under the horizon and with it's departure all the world goes cold.

Later you read away the last moments of the day and as you turn to cancel out the light you remeber that woman. she stares at you again, exactly as she had done. it is her time now, she is in you somewhere, afterall you make her. you switch off the light and shuffle inder the covers and take one last look and the dull and familiar sight of your room. and then you slide into the dark theater behind the eyes.

the place where all your murderes lie. the place where sex runs wild. the vanity chest that only you can look into. the dark ancient mud of you.

the night is aloud, in this place your bearings are set by the in and out of your breath. even when there is no noise, when there is a gap between the distant sounds of traffic on the main road there is no quiet. no pure slience. there is no silence. ever. there is a hiss underneath the calm, static noise and when you hear it that sound of silence get louder and louder.