I'm a rare breed of the human creature--one of a select few born onto an island. And only those of us born to these tiny, isolated islands can see them.
Us islanders, we rely on empty rum bottles and parchment. We suck that devil juice down until our stomachs churn, explode. Only then can we reach out.
Digging our nails into curdled puddles of vomit and blood (our quills and our ink), we write our notes and cast them into the onyx rolling sea of the dead; it's murky, like thick, salty mud.
And sooner or later the great ooze carries our words to the next islander.
He or she retrieves the foul-smelling epistle and finds solace in knowing they are not alone.
Then they pay it forward, with dead leaves and spit.