The clock ticks away and a reflection is seen in the shadows of a silver mirror glittering with the cold blue rays of the moon in the death deep of the night. Its amber shadow behind cascades over the cracked wall depicting a deep over hunted flesh. As the whitewash flakes away, the shadow scratches away in infuriating and screaming voice. A gust of wind blows, trying to bandage the excruciating inferno. “I told you about the holocaust, why thee came in a world so graceless?”, The grave breaks the smothering silence. The ghost whispers, “If I had a chance to be alive again, I’d choose my life to be taken away a million times for never had I pleasured a more solacing spasm.” It started raining and needled cold drops began pricking the soft leaves of the oak tree in the abandoned meadow of forgone light. There was no reflection in the mirror as the moon had hidden behind the dusty clouds, nor was there any shadow left. But the cracked paint crippled and flaked down with the moist of the rain mustered in the putrescent walls. It helped the ghost borrow some tears from the wall to cry for it had no matter in it left. Nothing is saddening but the pain of not having to die again. For not having a chance to kill your damaged self and reincarnate yourself. Ghosts don’t cry over living once, they mourn over the agony of getting to die once. Die a thousand times and come out alive by thousand-and-one, until you become one of them.