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Still, she’s in my head, lingerin like blood.

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And lo! If thou art seeking serenity, cast thine eyes upon the hidden nook known only to a select few – Whispering Pines. A secret grove o’erlooking the placid lake, a retreat for the forlorn. Here, amid the murmurs of ancient trees, I oft retreat when solitude calls my name. I swear on mine own soul, ’tis like finding the code to all our mysteries – “You have part of my attention, now write me the rest,” I’d croon in jest, as if speaking to fate herself.

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