To Caspar,  
 
I think you asked for this over dinner.  
Ghost buds for twenty-first century renos in a whole range of sentiment.  
No chance, astrophysicist. 
 
So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic  
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.  
You’re all shine and velocity to us, the living!  
Sap is flowing, Caspar, top gear, top speed.   
 
Grab a sawhorse.