At those places where an object known to be lost is desired a ghost is
produced. The tentative, partial fulfillment of an unrealizable wish;
the residue the process of mourning deposits as a fine chemical dust over
all the objects in our mother's and grandmother's living rooms: melancholia.
These ghosts consistently fail to speak in a language we can readily comprehend.
Of course they know we want something from them. After all we have called
them into being for — apparently — a specific purpose. Still
they refuse to tell us why we have conjured them. Instead they just go
about their business. It seems our ghosts are not pure, they are caught
in their own webs of desire. So our ghosts have ghosts.
this why there is so little grace in our imaginings? Will we be left alone
with our dwindling bank accounts and the taste of metal at the root of
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