As I approach the town of Westtry, I spy an apparition on the bridge ahead, and it looks as if it’s got something to say… but then don’t they all.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe…’ Nope, it’s not doing any good, it’s still there, looking all baleful and forlorn, haunting a bloody bridge. Typical Breton.
I gave up the pretence long ago that ghosts haunt the living, that’s just not how it works, they haunt themselves. Or rather, they haunt what they were, and what they were never able to accomplish in life. When all is done, all that remains are ventures unfinished.
But by this measure, what am I but a ghost, gallivanting about without a soul, seeking to fulfil my own ambitions before I die again… and you know somethings gone very awry when you find yourself needing phrases like that!
Best go see what I can do to lay this fellow to rest then.