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Ghost Stories For The Wilderness Impaired. This night is full of gunshots. They only last a few seconds. The time it takes my hand. To feel your chest, inhale, exhale. I imagine your last breath. Sirens are heard, near. Of blue, red upon our bedroom wall. Here, we sleep between gunshots. I can hear your breaths. From your first until now.

The trees pander to the wind the way I pander to your whims. Of course, the things we know are fleeting.

I like to write poetry. Me, Myself and The Other Guy. One day maybe it shall prevail and be straight and true but until then chasing shadows amongst the for is what he shall do. Pierce my heart with the arrow of liberty with your enchanted and brave soul.

Consider me a true-blue island girl. I was born in the Philippine island of Luzon, in a. Surrounded by acres and acres of rich farmland. A few months later, my parents and I moved to the city of Baguio, a lush, pine-tree studded mountain paradise that I would be my perennial home for the next 20 odd years of my life. I still think of Baguio with much fondness, and occasionally, tears in my eyes.