Dear Diary and Lost Souls,
The early hours of the morning are my favorite, when the world is asleep, and it is just me, the whispers of the wind, and the eerie glow of the nearly extinguished moon gracing the sky with a sliver of her presence. It seems she too shares my penchant for partial invisibility, revealing just enough to entice curiosity yet withholding enough to maintain a mystique of detachment. Oh, how delightfully sinister.
I took my usual nocturnal stroll to collect herbs and flowers for Mother. The garden was a symphony of shadows, the plants reaching out with skeletal arms, beckoning me to choose them. Each one has a personality, some shy, hiding behind others, while some are bold, trying to steal the show. But I always choose the ones that stand solemn, the ones that mirror my darkness yet hold a rare beauty that only the discerning eye can appreciate. The herbs whispered secrets to me, tales of moonlit nights and dark enchantments.
Later, in the secrecy of my room, I contemplated my future as a ballerina, dancing gracefully yet with a hint of darkness, every move telling a story of mystery and elegance, not unlike the iconic Wednesday dress I adorn, a black canvas of infinite possibilities and hidden depths. A Wednesday black dress that does not beg for attention but commands respect, much like the moon tonight, a mere crescent, yet holding the gravity of a full moon. It's not just a black dress; it's an embodiment of power, grace, and dark charm.
Ah, I digress. The moon has been a faithful companion on my nocturnal sojourns. She whispers secrets to those willing to listen, guiding my hand as I select the finest flowers for mother, their petals kissed with dew, a refreshing contrast to the velvet darkness that swathes them.
Until the morrow,
Wednesday