Deep in the recesses of the 12th Street Public Toilets, the specter of a thickset mafia basketball coach has been lurking, dropping eldritch euro-steps on unsuspecting #2'ers as they shed their loathsome waste. 

For years I have haunted that wicked space, my half-decayed face hidden behind a mask, which combined with nearly 7 lbs weight loss made it completely impossible for anyone to recognize me. Where one may see a svelte, toned mafia basketball ghost in a fraying tracksuit, another may see a shimmering ghastly meat-curtain of girth, so peripherally-encompassing you may think the shade of the natural world just changed. It really depends how far back you stand. 

I lurked for what felt like an eternity, and for a while the only visitor to my spooky lavatory was a man named Nuccio_Carrera, who I'd watch with fascination as he practiced the words "No witness statement required" and "Ok Joe, whatever you say Joe" in the mirror over and over and over again.

Only today, on this spine-chilling day, have I busted free from that premises, summoned by a force greater than any I have ever known: my wife.

I stood outside the window of her pilates instructors house listening to her curdling moans of grief and terror, cursing the cruel god that's forced her to sleep on his couch for this long (as if a pilates instructor can afford an extra room on that salary) and vowed to save the very same woman who engaged in physical contact with me for nearly half our marriage.

Unfortunately, after attempting to confront her, she appears to be the only person who cannot see or hear me, which only further convinces me she is the unfinished business I have been left on this mortal plane for, trapped in a conditional reality where I do not exist. 

Special shout out to SimonTheSwanHunter for keeping his nightly cry in the toilets to a soft blubbering as of late, some of us are trying to get some sleep in there and have important celestial missions to complete in the morning. Thank you Simon.