Dear Mr. Edward, Salutations. In case you haven't noticed so yet, this letter is meant for your eyes specifically. Of course others will obey their curiosity and read this as well. I have no objections. Now, here's a question I hope you have asked yourself: who am I? Here's an answer I do hope is true. Last time I checked, this was the case: I am, in fact, a spirit. Not the kind that floats around and haunts people. No, I am a different kind of spirit. I am a thought. You weren't expecting this, were you? Yes, it's true. I am a thought, many thoughts if you want to get technical. I am every thought that was never acted upon. Some people have named my presence "Writers Block". Others have named me "Procrastination". Whatever you decide to call me isn't exactly relevant; it's how you act upon my being. But how could you possibly act upon a thought that has never been treated as so before?

It all started on August ninth, on a particularly humid day. That was where they met. That was where it all began. - Story written by R.H. -

"It is necessary-" "It's not necessary if I say it's not." "Xigi-" "Don't call me that, damn it!" "You must. At least once." "Shut your trap, beast."

Enjoy my suffering and memes B) Consider this kind of like a diary But for the world to see