Dear ghost,
I know not whether you heard of that flower. That innocent flower bud with a faery wrapped in it's petal. As if with the light touch of your ivory fingers, it shall bloom into the flickering joy you have been chasing all along. So you dream and dream of the faery every night.
But when the fateful morning comes, the bud blooms to show a petal too unholy for the hopes you harbored in those dreams.
I know of such flower.
I would not call it a flower by all means but the withering old witch of the waste. That witch has inhaled the essence of virgin damsels. The witch hides in the skin of the most bewitching lady of your dreams. And I dream of such witch.
Yours even as I fear to be.