There are times between the lines of existence in which perception slows to a near halt. When the world around becomes a still frame, just like steam rising from the streets at midnight during winter. Single frames jump forward pausing for close scrutiny, looking to be stored in someone's memory.
It's far past midnight, and I haven't even entertained the thought of sleep. The full moon reflects upon the white ground, tricking me into an early evening mind-set, where there is just enough light for me to find my house key. The silence hovering in the air is heart wrenching, yet at the same time it brings peace. I find my hands shaking to grasp the door handle, the frosty air pricking the ends of my fingers. The cold metal shocks my stiffened hands further. I decide against going inside. The late hour does nothing to discourage me from leaving the porch to wander the snowed over lawn. The symbolic standpoint of this dream is yet to be apparent to me.
There are all kinds of ghosts that line the streets of this steaming city. Their forms dance in the faint light coming from the cracks in the foggy windows. The rising vapor pauses in its midair flight, encompassing the shadows cast by the un-consenting chimneys. The stars still the picture further, snapping this moment and ingraining it into their being.
There are all kinds of ghosts that haunt behind the doors of these night-darkened houses. There are memories of death, the ceasing to exist of childhood, innocence, and unconditional love.