invictus-est-amor

I drink more coffee than I should, feeling the buzz like a rush more than a buzz. The clock blinks 7:30 AM. 7:30 AM is when I get up for work on a Saturday morning. I work at a quaint little stationary store, where I never mention not going to church because it's run by Mormons and I might get conveniently fired. Technically I work in the Postal Contract station wedged into the store (a little like a tumor), but unfortunately I am not getting paid fourteen dollars an hour by the Postal Service- just eight by the Mormons. There are many characters who come in on Saturdays to break apart the hours of doing literally nothing. Although no one el

 They wait behind the gate. Lurking like the concentration camp victims waiting to be liberated by the Allies, starved, with haunted eyes and jutting cheeks. Black iron keeps them in, while coldly consecrated ground prevents them from wandering. Ghosts. Spirits. People. Behind the gaunt shapes looms the cemetery that years have forgotten. Tombstones are almost fully crumbled, and dampened from the drizzle. I don't dare crawl in between the new chain link fence, and the ornate relic from the 1890's. A hole has been cut, probably by kids who dare each other to bring Ouija Boards and planchettes. The no trespassing sign is blatantly ignored.