{ a story. }

I wanted to write a story about a time and place, as though it were my own. So I began. I'd been reading old letters that had slipped behind my desk; they were unopened and filmy. I remember years ago setting them in a specific pile at the top left portion of my desk and saying, I'll get to those later. Put off and off and off. Let's be honest, I had good intentions for those letters, but I never really felt compelled to read them. They didn't artificially make my heart burst with emotional blood when I opened the mailbox and there they were. I didn't grab my chest. I was flattered, but not enthralled. They were mine, but I didn't care. The desire to care was present, but impossible to force into submission.

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