Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.
The past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now.
The lawn is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, the sad intangible who grieve and yearn.
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.