Gravity never sleeps

The ghost of Sir Issac Newton appeared in my living room. I happened to be sitting on my couch waiting for the saliva from my mouth to finally reach my shirt.

The ghost of Newton said, “Of all the illegitimate places to find myself!” I sucked back the saliva and said, “Have a seat.”

The ghost of Newton said, “Though I am deceased, I prefer my ethereal corporeal mist not be sullied by your dilapidations.” I said that I often prefer standing myself.

I said, “I’m curious. Why have you chosen to ghost me and my home?”

“My preference would be haunting with my kindred spirit chum, Samuel Pepys, pallid hand in hand, strutting conjoined alongside the subterranean Tyburn brook,” said the ghost of Newton.

I said, “You’re saying you had no choice in the matter.”

The ghost of Newton looked at me, sighed, stared out the window, and morphed into a fly. As a glowing speck, he buzzed around the room, landing on the remains of a bagel.