A journal of narrative writing.
Watching Ghost at the Ritz-Carlton

Amelia Island, Florida Finally, the silence. The workers on the east & west wings         have ceased their drilling, & now just the wind through everything it can touch. It would be torturous to walk         through life like that: yearning for cigarettes or lips, undressing in front of everyone, with no one who can see. We don’t belong         among the doctors & deep southern accents, the overcast sky above ashen water the color of a body pulled from a hundred         yards out. They can’t feel the water, & there’s no riptide alert, sharks sensing blood from razor cuts, the fear of drowning.         But there can be no relief. All of them look like ghosts: floating through long hallways, cell phones glued to their ears, wrapped         in thousand-dollar suits, alligator purses under their arms. But jumping into bodies can’t happen, so we hope we’ve done         enough to stay here, avoid the shadows from darkened street lamps stretched into formless beings to drag us somewhere under         this earth, our penance we believed in afforded no longer.