Dearest,

Letters do not show up right. I am slightly dying to write. Looks aren’t
everything. So, words. No one is to blame. I didn’t mention the poems.
They should still be soft by the time they reach you.

I spent the weekend raining. Hangovers kept me company. No answers. I
would like to leave the country with quality, beautiful in theory.

This wonky beautiful machine might be love. I am desperate for it to
operate smoothly. Red Valentine, as you know, you’re my favorite. But
I wish I had more profound puddles to kick with.

I’m almost out…