Ghosts live behind the dusty glass of pictures frames. They look out at us at every point of the day; staring with those eyes set forever the same. They scream and they shout, but we can’t hear them. We close our ears off with mourning, because without them, the sun still rises and sets , and we are here to witness every moment. We set back in our chairs and stare at the ceiling, hearing them, seeing them in our memories where they are still with us but just out of our grasp. They are all around us, hidden right under our noses. It is the bittersweet truth of the faces behind the frames.
