Second Sight A quiet curse, this second sight to watch the paint peel from the brow. They drink the play, applaud the cue, while I observe the hidden wire. A rehearsed laugh. A tilted chin. The little ledger beneath the tongue. Each gentle word demands a price, some debt concealed in velvet warmth. They wear their grace like heavy wool, to pad the ribs and hide the rot. I see the grain beneath the gloss. I know the ghost before it speaks. And that is the terror not knowing too much, but knowing and saying nothing. To share a room with paper gods, to watch them pray to their own reflection, then wander home through crowded darkness, carrying the strange hunger of having seen too many faces and finding, among all of them, not one that forgot to act...
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