Dear ghost,
I am battered. It was a eight hour journey to the tip of a foggy mountain. I can assure you that no amount of psychotic seizure would have compelled me to drive in the middle of this dense forest. The only socialising I shall do here is with a dusty ghost probably shivering in a bush. But work I must, so with a little bit of aehuh aehuh and achoo, I stepped into this wrong turn part 5 kind of settlement after questioning myself for bazillions times. For the next 2 days, I plan to squeeze the story out of this god forsaken place. I am a storyteller and if I cannot sniff out an abandoned narrative, I have tortured my head for naught. Ah... before I forget- a mere minute after arriving here, a quivering little student still in her uniform asked me to buy a book they have recently published. Though the teacher peeking at our interaction with a smile on his face was a bit concerning, I bought their book. It was a collection of poetry and stories! Ain't that something else? Even in this rundown abandoned village, young minds dream. My dreams have died and risen like a worm-in-the-brain zombie. Since I have poured my heart out, I shall go to sleep, wrapping myself in a blanket I brought like a new born baby because this guest house has diabolical blanket.
P.S I have missed writing like this.