Love Letters, No. 26 - Portraits of a Ghost
I AM NIGHT and dusk is never ending. Probe the dark and prove my worth. Step blind into oblivion, summon demons in shadow forms on the cracked walls and windowsills, and every creaking floorboard flies a phantom, taunting. When I go, will some part of me remain, or will the memory of my feet, my sweat and fingerprints not linger like the dust that plagues this house, the grime that climbs wallpaper like trumpet vines suckering freely through a garden? What purpose do I have, then, if not to leave a mark? If my legacy is naught, then that is ...
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