Dear ghost,
Laying down inside a dim lit attic room,I can hear the cars passing by and the river rushing ahead. I can hear the wind beating the windows despite the TV playing a drama from a place I never visited. I can hear the cicadas; I can hear them clearly yet vaguely but none of them can overwhelm me. Because I can feel the tremble inside of me. Often, when one is standing at the cross road, their whole life flashes before. You wonder what it is that you have been living for. What is it that you will live for? But choose, I must. And that shall make all the difference.
Your snail