Dear ghost,
The colours are darker than usual. The usual have saturated into this moments. As I feel the smoke tearing up my eyes, I still groom the woods in the fire. Even at this remotest place I drink to the music in me and sway to the rhythm. If I am an unripe soul of what I ought to be, I have yet to solidify my breath. The air here is as fresh as those oceans in the movie. And I can only hope that they will water my soul. So that I come to fruition. So that I am "mature".
Yours even as I fear to be.