My ghost drives around with a bag of dead fish, falling neutrinos drift through the trees. He staggers and reels, runs up credit card bills and clogs up the toilet with bottles of pills. Here in the bipolar ward if you shower you get a gold star, but I'm not going far till the Haldol kicks in-until then, until then-I'm strapped to this fucking twin bed and I won't get any cookies or tea till I stop quoting Nietzsche and brush my teeth and comb my hair. Days pass slow in slippers and robe, but my ghost still bangs on the roof like John the Baptist in the rain while the nurses play Crazy Eights.