The body of a letter needs a spirit of the body.

Weaving in and out and....

I made my first turn off the main highway near dusk and watched indian summer sun vanish into the cold pastel horizon. This is the place reserved to the remaining mysteries of the world, the intangible facets that exist through anonymity. The secret ghost writers of all generations and children of the sun, alike, still haunt our veins.
    Like the sun, I'm too swallowed into the forest. I thinking about my breathing. I try to stop the thought. I'm holding my breath while being digested through a midwest backroad, with the memory of the sun swallowing my future.
   I'm reserving the rest of the night for the mystery.
I'm trying to calm my nerves.
                                     I'm trying to tap my veins.
I'm thumbing through photo albums,
I'm thumbing through leaves.
I'm waving goodbye,
sticky tears and hard choices remain on your face.
You remain on the fence.
It's nightfall by now and by now you will have fallen in love.
The weather has always affected our hearts.
Either way you fall depends on you,
at least after you've gotten out of this place long enough to know you've got a choice.
     Anyways, I don't mean to ramble;
forgive me, my mind wanders.
Give your mother my love for me.
Hope your dads doing ok.
                             Sincerly, Your living ghost.