I have a habit of holding on to ghosts. I think what I want the most is to solve the mystery behind them. If lovers came in genres then mystery would be my favorite. Human complexity confuses me into a fit of adoration. But then part of me stands to disagree. That the real blood rush here is the chase itself not the characters. True, I've never cried over a lost infatuation. Which sounds strange to me when I've been the shoulder that others have cried on for that same reason. I've felt empty, hurt, you name it but I've never cried. I've even tried. So maybe the hurt was loosing the blood rush, that it was exactly a hurt but a symptom of withdrawal. I admit the thrill is exhilarating and free.

Still I admire the ghosts I chase. Their words hint at eloquence and deeper thought. Poets really. There are only two ghosts. They share the air of mystery, and intelligence, and the most peculiar thing. The click. With ghost A he walked into the classroom like everyone else and I was just sitting there waiting quietly and look up as he passes my seat and just like that ... click. With ghost B I was with friends and I was meeting him and I took one look at him and there it was again that ... click.