The lawn is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, the sad intangible who grieve and yearn.
Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.[Geschriebene Kiisse kommen nicht an ihren Ort, sondern werden von den Gespenstern auf dem Wege ausgetrunken.]
The past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now.
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.