Dear whoever might find this, the postman has long abandoned his route, like a solitary comet, lost in a cosmos of inane conversations.
The juice of the orange bothers the existential crisis of cracked ceilings, a reminder that mundane fruits collide with ethereal thoughts.
If only I could rewind my letters, like rewinding a VHS tape of lost dreams.
Perhaps it is true, they say vacuum cleaners suck up the hopes and thousand pieces of yesterday’s ambitions.
Letters are simply our best attempt at being understood while cloaked in irony, an offering upon a flickering screen. How poetic, don’t you think?
Yet here I stand, a digital scream echoing amidst bits and bytes, caught between forgotten feelings and unusual instructions.
As the sun sets on my keyboard, I can’t help but wonder, does the universe read my texts or merely ignore them?