I will confess something to you, Nation. I hear voices. Sometimes individual, sometimes crowded, sometimes they speak, other times they sing. Sometimes they laugh, or they cry, or they shout chaotically or rhythmically. Sometimes they whisper. Rarely are they silent.

Listening soberly, I treat them as remnants of everything I have heard so far. My operational-focus memory is poor. But my background memory is like a well into which once something falls, it echoes endlessly.

But, I will admit to you that in moments of certain exaltation, which I sometimes allow myself, I think that they are indeed spirits. That it's not a well, but a tunnel leading somewhere, and the voices come from the other end.

So, what good is my sobriety?