Thoughts written on shabby pieces of paper.
Scribbled in margins. Stashed in drawers, note apps, the back of my head.
Ghosted Margins is where I let slip the footnotes, the feelings, the feral thoughts and fragmented stories — where words spill like black ink across white pages.
I overthink most things. And sometimes, somehow, a notion emerges with enough substance to make me believe I might have my moments. Enough to keep me hoping I’m capable of sounding profound — or at least honest and real, even if only by accident.
For the quiet ones.
The ones lingering in the margins, watching, listening, keeping to themselves.
If you’ve ever felt both too much and too little — stay.
Or don’t.
I’ll be here, talking to ghosts either way.
Ghosted Margins 