Beneath this tree, where I now stand, is where we buried you. The last day you were on this planet was the first day I heard laughter in the wind.
Was it nature mocking my loss? Was it another angel that had burned it's wings away, running naked and mad?
I thought many things, but came to realize it was you. Your laughter, your heckiling of the living, for the smart ones do not pity the dead, once they see the world, witness the truth of the world that they are living in.
I awoke the following morning to find my window open, and my body cold, yet, it wasn't the numbing temperature that awoke me. It was you. You standing there with that sick, orphan-flesh-eating grin. The look in your eyes were accentuated by the moon phasing in from behind you. It was a look of madness; delightful madness.
You were glad to be a ghost. It was the kind of happiness you could not comprehend, thus, not sustain under normal conditions. You were sick, depraved, and beyond reach.
You had gotten your wish, and were doomed to travel with it for the remainder of your essence.
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