Do you hear it? How it whispers? Do you see it? How it lingers? In the darkness of your home, of your bedroom, of every moment of a blinking eye, do you feel the breath against your neck as it sits with you unseen and wonders?Wonders where you've been. Wonders where you're going. Wonders what you have seen, what you've lived through, and what you've done. And you'll tell it what it wants to know. You'll talk until your gums bleed. You'll cry and gasp and whimper as your last story is told to the waiting thing, the unseen, the listener listening. The man hung from a building, the girl whose childhood died in a campground moment, the unconventional statues that stand along the outskirts of a concrete lake, they all sing the same tireless songs. They tell of their entire lives and the only moments to ever define them, etched in their skin, their body, and what is left of their soul. They speak and the undead thing who walks with you hangs on every word. Listening. Always. To all of us.