In my Gothic lair dubbed Point Wilson nestled in the Victorian sea port of Port Townsend, I have the quaintest nuisance, an apparition named Parthenia Goste. She is not nearly as old as I yet left the physical world at the tender age of 36. After many sleepless nights, subjected to her trick n’ treats, Parthenia decided to leave poems ubiquitously about my palace. On steamy mirrors n’ frosty windows, she delicately fingered her reflections. I was, t’say the least, absolutely tickled.
For your lovely contemplation, here is one of those letters simply entitled I Thought.