I’ve lived in this apartment for a year now.
I relocated for a job, hopefully this time around will be better.
Maybe this new place will inspire me?
I want to write a novel, at least in my spare time.
I’ve always loved writing so why can't I write now?
Who knows? Inspiration sparks at the strangest of times.
Hopefully.

I go to work,
go food shopping,
Come home,
Eat dinner,
Read or try to write for a bit,
Go to bed,
Repeat.

My dinner was cold last night.
It seems my microwave broke.
It has been giving off a strange odor for a while.
But I didn’t expect it to totally crap out on me just yet.
So cold left-overs were my dinner.
Another wondrous mundane part of my life.

I found dried flowers on my desk this morning, when did they get there?
They looked rather old, like they had been sitting in a book for a long time.
I never pressed flowers before.
Could they be a gift?
Why would it leave me a gift?
Maybe I should stop calling it, “it”.
It feels too impersonal. But can I really just name it?
Larry? (please no)
Well that’s just plain stupid.

I went to the store to buy a frame for the flowers, I can’t really put them in water now can I?
I still haven't thought of a name for my ghost, well besides my ghost.
I want to guess it's a guy but I really don’t know.
How do you go about asking someone you can’t talk to their name? Or gender for that matter?
Maybe a Ouija board? (too risky)
Aren't those a hoax though? Hm. I guess I’ll have to try something else.