She had said – what exactly? Something about her ghost heart. Strange words he thought. What does it mean to have a ghost heart? A ghostly ghost heart. She sounded like a folk song.
“Oh, my heart, my poor murdered heart,
Why won’t you die, my haunted ghost heart?”
He began to wonder at her with his grey unblinking eyes. And his wondering was an inexhaustible conversation that ran to the very horizon of himself, winding deep and long to the disappeared edge of his being.