Velma - Write to not be old wishing your life mattered. Write to me, darling. Write down your thoughts on paper. Darling, write faster when the words of others are stabbing your heart. By the time faith has decided your destiny, your writing will forever remain. Inside my soul, I hold my father's words. I became a writer in the Ultimate's world. In an underground tunnel, I'm writing for the Ultimate. I lived with my parents in the underground tunnel. My parents died, but still, I stayed in the underground tunnel. Inside the glass tunnel, I write about the unreality and reality that rest upon my fingers.My writing was looked at by an Ultimate and burned in the fire. I wanted to save my writing. I blew at the fire that was burning my paper, waiting for the flames the fire breathed to vanish. My breath was not enough. Pieces that made me complete were burned with the fire’s last breath. As my world shattered, the deep vibrancy of my screams vanished. I lost everything including earth's gravity that weighed me down. Earth’s gravity was no longer part of me. That world above my tunnel was no longer part of me. My body floated with no weight to carry.

The Ultimate’s way of praising writing as something to be made complicated floated me to this river of thoughts. Between the unreality and reality, I became dispersed by pressure.

Am I pieces because I’m writing about me? Am I wrong in writing and writing for me and not for the Ultimate? As for me, a writer in the Ultimate’s world, I wouldn't say I lost myself. I stay to cope with the shattered pieces. The tunnel where I stay is like a bottle with a message thrown into the ocean. Born blank slate or not, my soul was part of a helpless learning. I was shocked every time I wrote or spoke the beliefs with my tongue. I bit my tongue to write about pain when there was nothing to write. For eternity my writing changed to not be so defiant they say. For eternity this was done. For the internal part of me burst into small pieces.

In the tunnel, I'm comforted by the pieces that swirl my memories. I write because it's comforting leaving my fingerprints on a pen. My pen is like a tree I arrange for the birds to sing. I find comfort when I write. My soul’s enemies, lovers, deepest secrets are marked on paper. A piece of paper that could easily crumble, I wrote with my bruised hand to touch the words left on paper. The thought of my soul leaving a mark on paper is comforting.

Do the Ultimates look at themselves in the mirror? They can’t reflect, not really.Through the tunnel, the pieces and I are left behind loving each other. If I drown from thoughts in the tunnel, does the Ultimate know that dirt can consume and as it goes down deep into the throat, a dandelion grows out. No need to worry. My thoughts will water you as the pieces of glass reflect the sunlight. No petals to pull off a dandelion to predict someone’s love life, just the wind blowing the dandelions that carry my wishes far away. Like the shattered mirror, I am. Let the wind return those pieces others left behind with me. Let the pieces swirl back where they belong like a tornado that swirls to forget as it destroys.