"A man is whatever room he stands in," I heard someone say. What room does a ghost stand in? The cosmos is his only room. Wall are vapor, night and day a strobe, calendars compartmentalize alien characters that blur and imitate each other. To be a ghost is to not be attached to much, to have the whole world be your black and infinite dream, with no landmark but the incinerated ruins smoldering in the lacunas of their thoughts. To be a ghost is to be nameless and shapeless and without confine, so diluted you no longer exist.
Life concentrates us, the skin parameters us like the turrets and chain links of a death camp. When it rots away, the wind blows through and scatters us like the christening toot of a newly hollowed piccolo scatters it's inner sheddings with a flat note. And so maybe the two-dimensional flecks of sensations past, like chips of glass slides soaked in a bacterial ooze, could be swept together from the floor and smelted into a new form with a familial trace of its ancestor. Maybe at night it would dream of the whoosh of wind when a door opened or the nameless thing that hovered about an acquaintance's face, something that chimed and then faded when we swiveled to look it full on.