I am hearing familiar funeral voices now

I have a voice in my head a new voice still kicking through the shut dark womb of ideas I have I will never get around to do. I hear it first when I was waiting for a parking space to empty down by the pier district for the hotel as I really liked their pool but — no that is not right, I heard it first when I was at the cemetery talking about my day to someone that I had really wished somehow would be in it, a place where there are no laughs or looks of joy or a shred of colour do people employ under the watch of the sun, I heard the voice that sounded like every father of mine and every love I had lost saying I had a gift a thing so tediously and generously given to me as I am not special or important but I, more than others on days that I get high on despair could almost pretend that I could write something close to nice, and I heard the voice. I heard it spew all sort of random things and crazy begging and insane pleas, it said that like a child I have dreams I had when I was once a child, it told me many things and many things had left me shook, but one thing made me very curious as to the sources the voice had as it said perhaps I should write a book.