im obsessed with our last life. ive been dreaming of a witch my whole life and wrong sometimes but not about this. who put a spell on who is irrelevant  and inconsequential to the hole we are in. dig. dig. dig. then just start fucking laughing.

i don’t know who is who or what is what. i surrender that. i write the book instead. once, I met a man in the catacombs of france walked out a pillar and offered me a tour of the slaughtering floor. led myself and two friends to show me where the nuns were murdered. for no apparent reason, he gave us a free private tour of the catacombs.  I took five stones from the floor and touched one skull. i was careful with what i touched but not why. There were two little girls became obsessed with me quickly.

ghosts want their stories told. it is inconsequential to me whether it is real or not. it is just what I think.

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