Late Night Work

I’ve started to be asked to handle some business, by request, from the spirits. Late night, some early mornings, middle of the day—a knock on the door in my dreams becomes instructions. Dreams of other people’s lives. A prompt while waking, the skin of my scalp prickling as a presence descends.

Work has never been this satisfying. I may or may not see the results—I don’t need to see them. If I’m doing what I was asked to do, I don’t have to care if I did it “right” or if I was successful.

What a goddamn relief that is.

A pastiche is what I have: night blurring to morning, up at dawn to salute the sun and then again after commuting home. A candle, incense, herbs, fire, the smell of perfume, a conversation with the waiting air (and the spirits in it.)

It’s one am. It’s five am. It’s three in the afternoon. It’s seven pm. A conversation. Another. Verbal. Silent.

This is the waiting time, this period before.