I am getting ready for my tour about Edwin Booth this Saturday. I just realized that the protagonist of my story "Tobacco" (which you can read here) and Booth lived within a few blocks of each other. The ghost frequented the Old Town Bar. Booth must have strolled past it many times. Funny I never realized that when writing the story. Funny that the man in the story might be Booth. Just never thought of it before, which leads me to believe that most good stories write themselves.
Outside my window are waves of night, pale and golden, riding on updrafts. They carry insects, dreams, ghosts, debris, soot, and ashes. This building is 100 years old. When I moved into my apartment, there were red light bulbs in the ceiling fixture -- remnants of the 1960s? a hooker's calling card? Changed them right away, changed the lock, cleaned the place, never saw a ghost here. I have to hang around the Old Town Bar for that.