En passant, your statement makes some sort of sense, sort of like a pawn bypassing a pawn and taking a pawn. But your comment feels a throwaway.

You can turn this around. With some aromatic crushed garlic, sweet basil, cracked pepper and olive oil, you can make something of your life. You can sizzle yourself into sectioned loins and slices, or roast yourself into a stringy oblivion of chewy chunks. You can sear, or be seared. You have choices, for both yourself and for your ghost. Your ghost can find another ghost; you can mingle your possessing ghosts and your possessed sacks of fleshiness. But there is another way, a way of saran wrap, styrofoam, and a cabal of meatbeings that cook ghosts under the heat of ideas not thought since Before the Fall™. When two meats are mixed, they become something more: a God: a Turducken: a revelation of art, madness, and a conspiracy of chefs waiting for the antediluvian moment where meat stops being possessed, and instead cooks the ghosts under the light of a introspective magnifying glass, turned against that shriveled little phlegm whispering away in the beef machine. Run in the grass. Poop in the stream. Tear the swoosh of your Nikes.

Be the meat.