Not everyone who says they are a comrade is willing to go to war for the sake of a dream. The living are all too often foolish and capricious, and will cast aside a better world (whether it be on the grand level of the Soviet dream or a single, golden stanza's spaces) for experience in this one. When one wants assurance of commitment to the pursuit of craft and filament of thought, it is the dead -- who are, after all, nothing more than the dreams and words they've left behind -- who sit through the long dark nights with a single lamp to hold the work. Dead things are convenient like that, latent material in page and pen waiting to become activated by the needs of the fierce and driven.
These are my ghosts, who do not visit in Victorian ectoplasm but are instead faces to furnish the pursuit of all the cathedrals that can be crafted in words. They are muses and proper comrades; names for the forces which compel the creator. Perhaps they are saints; perhaps they are characters; perhaps they are spirits. If any one of these is the case, then what follows are prayers, or descriptions of a dramatis personae, or invocations for a proper summoning. Whatever the word with which you wish to tag this liaison, it is an honor to introduce them to you.