Dear ghost,
I was wondering if you have shriveled up like me. Like that dried up daisy in fornt of the outlet. In truth, I know not what my worth is. I believe I have vilely killed it.
So I feel the desperate nostalgia for something that I have forgotten. Something that I was carefully knitting for. That unrestrained colour that winded into a scarf of my ambition.
I could, I can, I should dance in the rain. But there are two many eyes that have not been. Too many dignity I had not before. Too many chains that I foolishly wore.
I know not where i put the key to my garden. There must be a way. It must have been hidden all in an effort to guard it. There must be a worth in the garden. There must be some colour.
But for now I only see the crime of my idleness. Or rather dishonorable vices.
Yours