A lone physical form walking down a winding street.
The architect of the buildings stolen from Yorkshire, mid 1900's.
Everybody walks past him, through him, in him. He staggers back, like they're real.
He continues along with his day. Truly, this thursday is HIS day. And so is the morning after, and the afternoon, and evening.
Then so is the Saturday, and the sunday, and every day of the week, every week of the year, every year of his life.
All of this makes him the most influential person on the planet. HIS planet. A dead planet.
Everyone else walks about their day, their set course, their permenant path.
Everybody walks past him, through him, in him. He staggers back, like they're real.
Instead of making him a ghost, because he was too defiant. Too strong...
The world became a ghost for him.
He's important now. He's well known now. He's everything he wanted to be but loved.
He'll continue to wind the streets. Hearing the corpreal whispers of the dead.
Wishing he could understand.