Dear ghost,
On a night like this, I want to fashion thousands of letter. Tens and thousands of moon, cannot possibly jar my melody. I am too vicious for that. I am too human. The Yellow clouds of sunset might have lost me in crowds of mundane but I am fairly alive. Willingly, I shall gift my passion to you who might believe in poem. The biology might ruin me a little. The society could alter me altogether. But through all history and evolution, pleasure of art survives and poets, with it. Or so I like to believe.
Fragile tomorrow has no promises, I am afraid my garden have failed to grow the scarlet seedlings of my fantasy. It is barran. It is desolate. The morning of my spring appears to be an error of my narrative.
Will the drowning mermaid ever know of fate?
Yours truly