the Spectre Spectator

From the box, on the side, I can see the face of the man change under the movement of a single candle in his hand.  In the dark chapel, he moves the candle down under his face and produces the look of a most grave ghost named Marley.  His voice changes as he speaks the words of the chain toting phantom.  The man produces from his own face and voice a variety of characters.  The greedy Scrooge comes out in a higher, faster pitch.  He is scared, a coward, yet curious.  I sit among others but I am not seen.  One unused seat in the house.  A ghost watching the incarnation of ghosts.  Marley, past, present and future.  All the ghosts out the window, too.  And I am a ghost watching the ghost of Dickens' words play across the stage.  Words you know in your sleep.  Words that have some immortality.  Words.  It seems a phantom could make a noise or a word but I simply watch the brilliance of words burn across time and out into space.  We make our words to remember.  And we use them to transport.  One person, after another, will pass the sentences of the living, into the fragments of the dead.  We can understand but not own the pen.