Judith's wet. Her skin tastes the drippy dew thrill of perfectly mown goosebump grass. Delightfully. Thoroughly. How it is. But besides tautology, how? After so long being a century unable. How can she feel and perceive such a wonder so happily? Does her body have a time temper oaken helve welded to an iron vanadium turnscrew between her listeners? Did serendipity crank within her and switch certain fragmentations from off to on? Dead to alive? Guesses she felt something scantly as this sensation the last time she was exploring. But this moment of felicity is whimsically fresh in comparison to the time before, when she was scuttling like a vermin through such a perfectly sunny blue privilege. Pastel Arcady conurbation. Maybe she wasn't ready before. Maybe this unending land of lawn and street and house wasn't prepared for the empty magnitude of her, either. Maybe...but now, something's somewhat different, since her heels and calves and buttocks and shoulders are joyously drenching from the olden lake and the lawn's glistening dew. Can feel the fondle between two types of moisture mingling like multicultural civilizations making out and becoming. Judith's wet.

While laying in the sun bath shine, Judith whims a certain recollection of the previous visit. Was kinda scared about it before but not so much anymore. Where's the damn man whom she saw the last time she left? There was no one here and then there was and now there isn't. And why is she fondling a thought of him? She couldn't even really witness him lurk last time through the bleary, murky water door.

The graveyard girl touches her ribs. Lifts her legs over her head. Rolls backward until she summersaults onto her knees and stands upright.

Rubs the moisture upon her thighs and buttocks and lower back and rambles along the greensward. Gazes and turns around. Witnesses behind herself ever so often at the horizontal and then in front at the vertical. Watches to recollect what she came across last time. Tilts her head down to witness the perfectly mown purgatory grass between her stepping toes. Finds so much pleasure in touching between and smiles like the pick of a golden harp in the lap of an angel. Oh, to feel such a way of feeling. The loess and the gray of the cemetery are like an olden memory of an ancient dream compared to the crisp saturating colours of this world. This conurbation wayward station.

As Judith continues along her sunshine skipping walk to nowhere, realizes something peculiar. Something she realizes her eye bowls should've noticed when she returned to this place, maybe even back before she decided upon an adventure. A very odd thing is very different now. The man at the water door was a bleary silhouette. A blurry, murky shadow of a social construction in her thoughts. Judith looks down at her flesh and the grass and wonders at what point her shadow disappeared. When did it dispose of her? Where did she drop it? Why did it drop her?

A word bubbles to the surface of her mind like it was once held under by festering skin stitch sutures and ingrown staple puss. Something she heard many living others shout at the sight of her menacing dancing shadow. A word she finds wholly satisfying to pronounce in the context of any situation.

"Motherfucker!"

Is her shadow gone forever? Did she leave it behind to haunt the cemetery by itself? Is it here? Did it go into another house? Which one? Should she care? Is her shadow that damn water door bleary man from the last frolic in this place? She ponders and ponders the pondering.

Judith surmises that maybe she can feel things like the wet and the tickle because her shadow is separated from her physicality. Maybe it's giving her a type of freedom by detaching. And though maybe this correlation isn't causation, she might be right. She's no longer that of a Kantian thing in itself, whatever she thinks that means. But was she ever? Is she really noumenal? That's just another representation to categorize with all the other types of interpretation. And is she that of a truly manufactured individual? She hasn't witnessed an inkling of society for at least most of a century. But still. She's not the way she is because of nothing. Maybe her teleology is of the authority built into an ideological state apparatus. Maybe she was married to Althusser. But whatever was and will be because of such mystery, Judith feels alive. Fleshy. Solid. And something else. Something she hasn't felt since she can remember. She's curious about her curiosity. Her body. Senses. All of this after the apparent loss of her shadow.

"Motherfucker!"

She yells the profanity over and over. Her voice echoes away and back to her, over and over like a song sweet token. Bounces off invisible molecules of nothing. Collects the joy in pronunciation. Again and again.

"Motherfucker!"

Judith speeds her skip stepping and begins running. The dew splashes behind her from each kick. Sprays her backside. Slippery heels. The graveyard girl jumps onto her slick butt and slips like she's on a child's rubber sprinkler slide. Down a slight decline in the lawn. Joyously hollers at the amusement and springs back up. Catches her wobbly balance with laughter and continues her jiggly bit running.

Judith's thoughts grow like black vine veins scaling snowy legs and white lianas canes and shoots spreading midnight crus. What does being solid mean to not mean? She's not belly sore. She doesn't seem to be respiring. The graveyard girl can lick the world but she can't whiff it. Oh, but Judith can feel what wet and tickle and motion does to her butterflies. But what does this mean when pain happens? Can a solid ghost feel compression and tension and laceration and fracture? Is she a ghost to such events? Is she les than or really solid?

She jumps off the grass and strikes what seems smooth gray stone in the street. Right fist punches down and rumbles numerous times. Breaks the pavement into crumbles. Feels no affliction as her knuckles bleed crimson. Inner liquid flows down her forearm as she brings her fist close to her eye bowls for inspection.

"Motherfucker."

As the blood drips upon the smooth stone, the street fixes itself. The broken pieces turn into fissures and the fissures fill with dust and become as they were. Judith's hands remain red. Wipes the freshness onto her thighs. Simpers like an Abyssinian type Bombay cat.

"Burgundy warpaint."

A stepping noise.

Something in the near distance catches her eye. An umbra of movement upon pavement drifts toward her and the pink pastel, two story behind her. It disappears into the ethereal shade cast by a lavender house and resurrects from the darkness. Passes upon the graveyard girl. Judith shudders. Hurls her legs in the direction of the silhouette. Notices the umbra carries the stark posture of a man. Catches a quick glimpse upon its dangly sculpture and its hand cup-able backside. Swoons a moment. The very fast, slow motion torso and limbs of the black phantom achieve the door handle to the house. Judith witnesses the dark translucence open one of the large, pink panel double doors. The action is soundless. Imagine a lone shadow opening a door.

Judith stops and wonders if she should continue the chase based on such anxious information. A shadow which can open a door must be a physical creature like herself, if she's even really been that kind of physical. Or the door is of something like the shadow. She's uncertain of the danger. Such a moment is unsettling, like the origin of a fairy tale. The situation is and isn't surprising. Judith's someone who's possibly dead, after all. Nothing should shock her at this point in her life. At this place in her after. She slightly shrugs. Rubs her cheeks with her palms. Combs her hair with her fingers. Spits. Listens to her belly gurgle. Pretends to fart. Better.

The graveyard girl's anxiety succumbs to her newly endowed curiosity. It's the lifeblood of living. So she looks directly at the door and follows. Slowly. Can hear her feet softly slap upon the smooth ivory white path leading to the house. Wet footprints scatter after each step. Comes upon the blushing stair and up four to the double doors. Pinkish, almost vaginal with a flapper frame surrounding the house's orifice. Witnesses over at a blue house and wonders what alien biology watches itself as a simulacra for a metaphor.

Judith creeks open. Walks through. Closes one pink door behind her. Humidity and temperature are immediately different. Cooler. The room is brightly blinding with an artificial, glowing ceiling. All the lights are buzzing like she's never encountered light before. No candles. No sunshine. Indoors. It's something else. What's the word? Electric? Yes. That's it. It's electric and she also feels electric. The hairs on her arms stand like skeletal bodies rising to attention from within a tomb like an army of dead sensation.

"Motherfucker."

And there he sits, the damn man by the stairs. The shadow. Her shadow? Could he be? How is such a way of things a thing?

His profile stands. Judith discerns he's not a two dimensional reaction to light coupling with the way the eye elucidates these sort of moving moments. Her interpretation is that he's unnerving. She backs up but doesn't take her eyes off where his glaring sight should be coming from. The dark phantom is corporeal in appearance; definitely a human with a male silhouette. Flows stature in a nebulous way toward her. Slows when he gets close. What's now unmistakably a man shadow reaches his palm and vignette fingers above her. Places night sky digits upon her gloaming face. He elongates and thins as he attaches himself to her. The shadow fades into her contours. Becomes her odd reflection. And in this moment, her thoughts are of her shadow's figure when it lingers by itself. Walking and running and dangling. She swoons. Her shadow is a man and not merely a magic trick of high noon and midnight. She has never thought about her own silhouette in such a way. Her loins become perky at the thought.

A moment of time ticks and dies upon reaching the past. Her attached shadow squeezes flesh softly and tugs on her. Legs move as a cause of the shadows effect of pulling and pushing. The graveyard girl moves toward the staircase as many flowing umbra hands feel her legs and feet and hips, almost sexually. Definitely sexually. Shudders at such touching. Shadow hands rub her tush and caress her up the flight. She's almost floating. She feels the intention. What he doing. But what's upstairs?

Once she's above the below, the many palms and fingers manoeuvre her into a room. At this point, her entire lower half is engulfed in a rubbing shadowy skin. Fingers find her insides. Judith quivers and vibrates with the thought that this is her shadow, this is a part of her. Entering her through her lady bits. Almost falls to her knees as the sexual physicality becomes too much. The multiple hands vanish like a quick downpour ends in a rainbow. Like it knew to stop. Does her shadow listen to her mood? Her emotions? Maybe her thoughts?

She hunkers, hands on knees, smiling and leaking juices. Strangely satisfied and yet unsatisfied. He rubs her back and her tummy groans. She silently lets gas escape. Relaxing. Calming. Judith stands upright and witnesses what comes next. Bites her lip.

The room has a large bed with a rosy comforter ornamenting the centre, surrounded by brass and bronze frame mirrors hanging like trophies upon the walls and ceiling. Witnesses her reflection in everywhere. Judith's stunned by the many "her's" in the many infinity reflections, over and over and over. If she hadn't just glimpsed this, she never would have known what it was. The amount of time she's been dead must have erased her inductive reasoning.

Judith's a pale, thin, coppery greenish, grey hair, youthful freckle corpse with a facial expression that wears as comfortable as clothing. Maybe she's not a corpse. A smile quietly produces dimples like tiny sweet craters on her moonlight cheeks. No. She looks whole. Rough. Very feminine.

Her shadow pushes off and smooths. Falls away as if slowly dropping. Floats across the floor. Becomes corporeal upon the edge of the bed. Sits. Sculptural. Watches Judith witness herself in the mirrors. Watches her smile like the dawn has finally risen.