Sometimes you have dreams that the dead suddenly and for no apparent reason enter, where they instruct you to surreptitiously crack the eggs on supermarket shelves, bring in the dolphin from the road which has turned into a river, or gather rare orchids from the rainforest. At such times, they seem like stoned oracles, dispensers of signs and omens too weird to decipher. Sometimes you can't tell if they're serious or joking; and when a ghost is joking all you can think of is there's still so little evidence on the subject of life after death. Why is it that when it's humid and sultry and you unwind the garden hose to water the plants, an hour or two later the rain comes down in sheets? Your hands still carry the metallic smell of water tempered by dust when you press them against glass. They leave a slight outline— as if you were touching a hazy version of yourself in another world.
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