We are frogs who walk on land and sometimes drift out to sea; you are the fish who never grow legs or swim out from your safe bay. We are blurred splotches on the world's canvas. We are slaves to our temperaments, the product of collected experiences. We bend reality at will and whim. To the world, we are but ghosts. From the inside of a notebook, under the pen, we word-consuming monsters dwell. From tight-sealed lips, we smile as if we're holding a secret in. Which, of course, we are.