With the night survived, I weasel my way into the morning routine. My health has improved noticibly; another Thanksgiving endured beyond the sick-couch. You know the one of which I speak.

Physically, it’s the same sofa you and your’s adorn in your leisure. Then, you feel that tickle in your throat. Your furniture becomes an interdimensional speed boat of fever dreams and YouTube shorts clips of The View. I find it soothing to use the sounds of women arguing as ambient noise. It’s a rock I have yet to lift, so I can’t offer an explanation. It is what it is.

Perhaps if I can hear what my younger self considers an authority, then the boogeyman can’t come.

It’s a lie, they go where they please, but it’s beautiful sleep fuel.

The usual pops and creaks announced themselves in the darkness, but this feeling is new. At least here, in this home. I know damn well what lingers in hallways, because I’ve stood face to face with them in younger days.

I was too blind then to believe an explanation was extraterrestrial, especially since I’d just had a crash course in ghosts.

What if they’re one in the same?

It’s just a thought, but I know where my thoughts lead.

My hands are cold against my coffee cup. It’s a beautiful morning…as long as you only look in this “bag of mornings”.