I’m working on a series of short stories inspired by photos of criminals from the 1920’s. There are a lot of photos, and no full-fledged stories yet, just notes and notes. Turns out, even after (I assume) death, these scofflaws are honing their skill set, stealing my ability to sleep. I start to drift off, and it’s, oh that! That is what number 8 is! And I get up, to make a note, so I don’t forget.
Maybe eventually, when they’ve purloined enough minutes, those old ghosts will use that time in a wise and good way. Maybe it will be for something pedestrian, like telling someone they love that they loved them, too late to matter. Maybe it will be spent avariciously, looking for forgotten keys to abandoned safe deposit boxes. Or maybe they’ll tell me I’ve gone and got their stories wrong.
But tonight I have to go to bed. And stay in it.