What is a ghost? A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and time again? An emotion suspended in time, like a blurred photograph, like an insect trapped in amber. Don’t say a word about tomorrow, or forever.

Losing patience and feeling the scorn beginning to rise, he turned the stereo back on.

I did my best
But I guess my best wasn’t good enough
‘Cause here we are back where we were before
Seems nothing ever changes
We’re back to being strangers

The music spins inside your head, understanding no longer takes place. Your muse is corrupt. The insidious. Corrupting. Your muse shapes your life, your existence further than you remember. That voice, whose voice? Can you remember?