There are ghosts around me. I watch them appear, apparitions in broad daylight, hollow like see-through glass, phantoms with unknown names, silent specters who scurry about, moving this way and that, not perceiving the world around them. What a pity, I think, to be so absorbed, so un-noticing.
Excuse me, sir — the voice of a tattered man, wearing a threadbare winter coat, blazing June sun, but I pretend not to see, not to hear, just keep stepping. Could you spare some change? I say nothing, continue to move, stoic face forward, pursed lips sealed, then realize: I am the ghost.
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