And you shall not ignore the fleeting sense of melancholy creeping through your curtains, the phantom of time speaking to you tenderly, a wrinkled woman knocking on your door, begging you for answers. when the flame of your candles starts to burn cold, when your skin shudders and your legs begin to shake, do not start calling for your mother, your mother will not come. when you hear her humming from a distance, put your hands up to your ears and hum a different tune. do not surrender to the torment of the dead, do not mistake a distant whisper for a wailing cry. have i said it well enough? have i carried myself with poise? i don’t believe in magic nor in beasts that crawl among us, but when i sit alone at night, peeking through the locks of your door, i know the walls can see me, i know the faces on your paintings understand.
