081413 #worm The stars wheel away overhead; the planets complete their wandering. The last of the driftwood and pallets surrender to the slow rapture of becoming embers. It's time to clamber drunkenly to the tents. Bnabe came here with the willow-haired girl. They slid down the muddy slope together. But now she veers toward Me's tent; the bifurcation of a decision turns from potential to actual. Her laughter is more than Bnabe can stand. The willow-haired girl is Bnabe's ghost. But who is Bnabe now? Who is this dead man with cotton in his mouth, who is cold to the touch, who laughs with a hideous burlesque of taking it all in stride? Who is crying out, taunted by this visitation from the dead, waking up with rabbit pulse in the cold corridor?