Is there hoarfrost on this idea, this name, the Soul? Is it not a little white, a little wispy, a ghost in the night? Or is it the palpitating present, the dark ever-present well within, that passion that sweeps us, whose soul it is, off our feet? Is it a funky beat with feeling? Is it your stake in the real estate of the next world? Is it your final thought as you transmigrate to the next life, the proximate cause responsible for your future estate? Is your soul a blue flame the size of your thumb in the center of your heart? Or is your soul simply the highest bidder? Or is it the highest ladder? Are you an epiphenomenon of your body and its thriving brain? Are you simply the screen-dump of your computing hardware, a loose wheel for appearances' sake? Is your soul a twinkling in God's eye, a single beam in the infinite refulgence? Have you wings? Was your soul already you before you were born? Do you have a best-before date, an expiry date, stamped upon your soul, as its final day, or will you be enfolded into the arms of eternity when the dross of body drops? Do you cling to your soul as to the bedpost of a dream-frightened child? Are you your limbic system, do you gush with its secretions? Are you your glands and your rushing heart? Is the soul the fall guy for your every action, the one responsible, the knowing agent who may have winked? Do you depend on the soul showing up on the last day to be held accountable; for without this what amoral world are we in anyway? Is your soul the seat of your uncomfortable desires, your unconscious self, hidden from your sight by the nose on your face? Are your eyes the doorway to your soul or more like the vestibule, the dark entry chamber? Where do you put your galoshes? Is your soul a refuge from the rain, a home away from the storm? Or are you the thundercloud and the lightening? Is soul more than a metaphor?

Descend, appear, take flight, and join the hungry souls for a meal of philosophy