(They'll soon awake the revenant.)

There's a devil behind those boardroom eyes, a polite virus that conjures contagions, the curse, and the cash.

So let the typists scrye for an incantation, for a blood loss method to summon the shade through the fax machine.

(They'll soon awake the revenant.)

And let the candles die. Let the flame expire and the wax sit silent just long enough to surrender the seed.

It's like a butterfly, wingless and dreamless, fear-froze and forgotten, ready to hatch and consume its cocoon.