I don’t really feel things, or know things, the way that I use to. I just sort of process all of it through a kind of emulator of what older, better me would have thought and done. It’s like looking at yourself like a photograph of the sun and the clouds drifting beneath, all of the light and the colors are in the right places, but there’s no warmth, and you know you’re already in a memory of anything living. What’s left is sort of like scar tissue, around what you once were or what you might have been. You don’t have to die to become a ghost. Need takes the soul and fools give it, or demons rip it away for a blanket against the cold, their own or that of the world.