post-mortum murmurs, the sussura of the ghost. every occult mother-fucker leans in; this sort of shit is their bread & butter. will the dead whisper of the bleakness of limbo? will he name a demi-urge or some other crowley bullshit? frankly, i just want to hear i love lucy reruns. i'm not entirely clear on that whole "television signals beamed into space," but from what i can tell, heaven is in outerspace, so i've more or less decided that everyone born after the invention of the television antenae has an old television rerun in their heart instead of a soul. so probably everyone in the past was made up of weird extraterrestrial tv shows, which is explains why shit like easter island is so freakshow. humans are fucking fragile, he says, sixty-five (65) million years old. i want to see a man in prison choked to death with a bar of soap.