The ghosts that exert the most power in people__ lives-at least, the people I know__end to be of their own making, and consist of equal parts regret and old fears and just plain missing somebody.
Have You Prayed_ When the windturns and asks, in my father__ voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:I__ never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his father__ voice,his mother__ voice . . .Or maybe he__ seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my father__ voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A father__ loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what__ left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? That__ to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? That__ my father__ face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know it__ only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearth__ wish and earth__ rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. It__ just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.
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Have You Prayed_ When the windturns and asks, in my father__ voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:I__ never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his father__ voice,his mother__ voice . . .Or maybe he__ seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my father__ voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A father__ loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what__ left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? That__ to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? That__ my father__ face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know it__ only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearth__ wish and earth__ rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. It__ just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.
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Mark nodded even though she couldn't see. He'd suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.
This isn__ how things were supposed to happen. I was supposed to be me. Not this.
He felt more crypts cracking open inside of him; the stench he smelled was not decayed bodies but decayed memories, and that was somehow worse.
Satan's despair is absolute because Satan, as pure spirit, is pure consciousness, and for Satan (and all men in his predicament) every increase in consciousness is an increase in despair.
Was it possible to feel nostalgic about something that had never happened to him, possible for nostalgia to be taken in by the body as a free pathogen to infect the consciousness with stray sentiments? Perhaps, in his dreams, he had traveled back in time, or even drifted into another dimension of space-time and inhabited the body, experiences, and nostalgia of another. To even envisage so allowed the trauma of those lost moments, though not his own, to draw from him a certain envy for the entity in whose memories he had basked vicariously. . .Perhaps, nostalgia was a microorganism. . .the bacterium that infected. . . Yes. . .maybe he was sick.