Pity the poor Australopithecus ghost, stuck in a loop of regret and unfinished business, walking the paths it walked in life which are now sadly dozens of feet under new sediment, a haunting witnessed only by tunneling creatures with dim eyesight and no sense of the wonder.
You may dislike the President, but I admire his form. Not many people know this, but he’s made from a single sheet of flesh, carefully folded and crafted by a talented Flesh Origamist. If you were to unfold him, he would stretch halfway to the moon, which would be a good start, especially if it’s the further half away from us.
A million angel chorus, singing full-throated for aeons, but if you could record it, and could play it back at a faster speed, it would resolve itself: The words “I’m soooo booooored” repeated in slow variations, lazy chords weaving in and out, over an over eternally.
Nobody talks about how Santa, a powerful thoughtform, manages to take over the minds of millions of parents to make them do his bidding annually. They sign To/From cards on his behalf. They purchase toys with their own money! Gladly!
Your garden variety psychic sensitive or card-guessing ESPer is no match for this monster from beyond the snows.
So we just let it happen, year after year. We celebrate this psychic parasitism. Only in these summer months, when he’s weakest, can we even post about it, disguising it as jest.