While stranded in the withering swelter of seclusion, it is not uncommon to be lead astray by the welcome musings of a passing thought. A mirage, in the desert of one’s solitude, that takes hold and becomes a fragile reality. While these mirages can be born on a whim, simply the result of a random firing of neurons, more often and more sinisterly they rise up from the past. They refuse to die, and be buried: wraiths, drawn out of the blackness and given form. Humans are haunted by their traumas, by congregations of unfeeling, unseeing, ghosts; spectres of regret.