For a long time, there were story tellers--in ancient palaces of Greece, mead halls and castles of medieval Europe, with the power of their voices and songs and lyres and gestures and eyes they wove stories that told us about who we really are. They went away after a man made a printing press, so we read stories if we knew how to read and the good stories helped us to know ourselves; now there is this lonely electronic age, where we text and email and blackberry our way through time and distance, but cannot see or touch another human. I am asking myself what makes a good person and what is love. Now I have something new to think about: how to keep myself integrated, how to keep these gadgets and things that clutter my life from disintegrating me from my spiritual self. Yes, of course there are ghosts. Disintegrated pieces of us who found themselves "dead" and disoriented. To be one of those who shows ghosts and other wandering fragmented people to the Light--that is good to tell about in a palace, mead hall, highland pub, or the lonely cold halls of modern cyberpalaces. The roses die on the thistled vines...is good known only to God/yah? Oh, Love, who kisses and loves the thorns themselves and scatters the browned petals in the north winds, send us souls who awaken our numbed souls.