Dear ghost,
Famished, nonetheless the necessity of my shadows thrives. I doodle that which is unsightly. Beyond the nondescript scribbles, I imagine me to be vibrant.
I could ostentatiously write vocabularies that gratifies the pompous mouth. However, I greedily adore these words. Or so it appears.
I like to think of the heart as a bud that often blooms at the twinkle of the world.
I must have forgotten that I am incomplete. Maybe I awfully miss the sprinkle for my heart. It seems like I should go on a hunt to salvage my treasury. Untill then, a chrysanthemums for you.
Truly yours