Buried beneath a boneyard of battered tombstones lies hordes of insomniacs that clatter through their stretched coracles. Open eyes and empty mouths remain ingrained to their one-manned vessel while they should be traveling the tributary to hereafter, but inhumane mock mourners fancied Charon’s obol too overpriced to inhume.
I can still hear the hum of hamstrung hopefuls: murmurs of eager souls. Restlessness resumes even after a formal curtain call if relatives leave residue from roguish relationships unresolved: irresolution to vocalize merciful verbiage in a favorable vein. Oblivious people speak a hostile vernacular comparable to Narcissus himself, at least until their retributive day.
Few claim to be clairvoyant.