Yeah, I’ll be your ghostwriter. If you want me to, I can be your ghostwriter. I’m elusive, but I’m there. I fill out the space in the empty shadows, where you don’t dare to go look yourself. My wicked way with words are not for the faint-hearted. They are for the burned ones, that know what it means to have it raided and butchered. The children of the night with eyes that only glow in the dark. But oh so beautifully. I’m in that kind of business. I’ll sell my words, but I’ll never sell my soul. I’m a ghostwriter.
I’m a ghostrider, baby, and your AI-powered boyfriend don’t write like I do. Come ride with me. You can try to ghost me, but I’ll show up and haunt you in your pretty dreams and turn them into beautiful nightmares. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. You’re riding with a star, girl.
I do the job that’s LinkedIn inappropriate. You can come recruit me in the streets like a real headhunter, or you can stay the fuck away. I’m the special case you can’t crack, no matter how many times you poke at me with your precious toolkit. Your foresight don’t work here. You need a black-swan strategy for me, and a little prayer, if you can muster up that kind of belief. Don’t know where to put your money? Check for Triple A in your system. It says SAASTA.
So yes, I’ll be your ghostwriter if you want me to. No one has to know I was there. But as we both might suspect, they probably will.
