I don't know why all the conservatory ghosts hate each other. I don't know why the ballroom ghosts have staked out corners of the room and are lobbing dusty dance cards like bombs. I don't know why the east wing ghosts keep referring to "Martha" in tones of derision
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occasionally all the ghosts come together to yell at the same person and it's like, yay, I finally understand what's happening, and then I realize I too am yelling. what's that in the mirror. it is my withered face
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This perfection earned you a fall.
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Follow. Effing autocorrect.
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YES. This is the metaphor I have been awaiting. Thank you.
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This, but instead of a house, it often feels like a nightclub and I'm wondering what the ever loving hell I'm doing in a place I can't stand.
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I do like it here, more or less; I'm just trying to build my own room with my own ghosts, really
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or extended pun-fests, or folks showing slides of Gorgeous Things™ to one another...
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