Dear You,

It’s evening, house begins to settle, thoughts turn to the cold that numbs my fingers. Rogue AI assistants hover uncomfortably close as eyes avert to their suggestions. The challenge to form complete thoughts or sentences, to make something of the nothingness, to pave a road for dormant passion, or deconstruct flesh of unexpected appetite has been overwhelming. Nothing brings relief as reach admits want only to deny the warmth of a gloves embrace.

Love,
Me