Psychic

You asked me about my dreams. My dreams are the Aether a telephone exchange for the dead,and I am the operator, the unquestioning believerat least, that’s what they expect. I speak the All-Language – twice blessedto a headache an afterlife long. Did you know that spirits’ voices are wordless?They speak in drawn out sighs, like whale song.

And the voices which come through the switchlike a radio with bad reception,never do have the desirable answersto those big important questions. The disposing stare, then: ‘Is that all they said?’You’d think I was hosting a chat show, not communing with the dead.

Spirits just don’t have a lot to say. Even to me.And the ones who do, have a lot to say that is,put in call that are constantly redirectedbecause the relatives of every Tom, Dick, and Harry,and once even Angela Lansbury,are clogging up the grid. That’s something we don’t like to admit:we’ve all lost somebody.

And this job is enough to give anyone a complex.Who wants to be the glorified mouthpiece for the shreds of somebody else’s mind?Yet, sometimes even I can’t help scrolling through the indexpunching in the same seven digitsfor the same static every time.

They lie to you when you first become a psychic.Ghost lines only work one way.