That pub downtown Bangor must have ghosts wandering it. Ghosts through its up and down split bars: a different world on the patio, by the fountain, crossing the streets, by the concrete river, up in the narrow bar. All different spirits going through. Sometimes hearing voices from my friends that aren’t theirs. Sometimes hearing troubles of my friends that aren’t theirs.

Like the voices I heard outside the closed door of the doctor’s office:
Is there a fire in here?
We don’t have a shredder so I’m using fire.
Well it’s coming over here, I can smell it.

Like the voices I heard at the office:
If I lived by an airport I’d never wake up. The planes taking off is so soothing a sound. The sound of the fan ushers in my dreams.