Beyond the mortal compass of moral, of restriction & the closure of being.

Fyodor, in of spirit and elysian soul, was bound to the antique you’d bought months prior— a book that made scarce sense, as you failed to read Russian.

Even if you did, the decay that degraded its condition rendered it imperceivable.

And as you flipped through pages that yellowed with age, fingers of a ghosted consistency come to settle on your shoulder.

“I’d say a ‘hello there’ would be in order, no?”