Chills are reminders of unnatural occurrence; 
swells of coolness granted by the palms of the unseen–
who knows if you are shaking hands with the devil
or kissing a sympathetic soul left at a metaphoric train stop.

I hate being defined by my manners, 
washing my hands when they feel full of something invisible;
letting my mind float into sleep, seeing faces; or summoning the courage
to speak to an empty room.

Raising the dead sounds as difficult as rearing a child,
but as simple as acknowledging the natural elements. 

Energy doesn’t just phase out. 
It must dissolve into a lesser conscious world. 


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