May. 23, 2003 - 5:13 p.m.
The ghosts of my past are rarely satisfied by an existence in print. No, they feel the need to touch and be held, minutely examined, pulled out daily and caressed. They refuse to merely fade into the woodwork, instead they shout defeaningly in my ear and claw at my eyes until my attention is again refocused on them.
The ghosts of my past refuse to die quietly.
They will not go away.
Or have they merely not found a way to escape the chains I placed upon them?
