Dear ghost,
Rowing on a boat, tomorrow may be trusted. This feels like a mirage in the desert. The dry air knows my trouble. I have been thristy for so long, I fear if I run, it might disappear. I need to sleep and just breathe. I am holding the sand in my hand. I mustn't let it fall. I must wait so it rains. When it rains, I shall mold it in the way I want. I must walk slowly and slowly. So, if it is indeed mirage, I must not exhaust myself.
Yours and yours