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Dear Bolu,
This is another one of those letters that bear little significance because it contains nothing sensible or tangible. Of course, it is my doing but I wish, desperately so, that I didn’t have to do it. I had hoped to write to you about names or lies, but that would have to wait as Time has bested me this week. My honest and valiant efforts to be the triumphant party in a war of attrition with the clock, the stopwatch, the alarm, the calendar and Time’s many other ubiquitous forms have all come to nought. I wish it weren’t so, dear friend, and it saddens me deeply to concede this defeat.
Nonetheless, my earnest hopes are that you are having a lovely week; that you’re filling your body with water and fruits and greens; that you are filling your mind with wisdom—whether it be from observing a caterpillar morph or stars in alignment; that you’re finding sleep in the comfort of your pillow, teddy or lover’s arms; and that you are, above all else, well. I should express these hopes more often, I suppose. Pardon me. Should you feel inclined to respond to any of my letters or satisfy any of my curiosities, you are at liberty to do so. I’d like that very much, dear friend.
Fin.
*Cover Image by Jonas Stolle on Unsplash
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy