I have a box of letters, addressed to a younger me, written by a kindred dreamer in a time when the world was an open book and the future seemed fair and easy to navigate.
I have a box in a drawer, filled with photographs from the strangers of my past. Sheep in a pasture I've never seen. People playing pool, smoke tendrils lit from above, in a dark bar I don't know the name of. A polaroid that failed to develop, except for the bottom right corner, where you can see feet and bundled legs near a campfire.
I have a box of letters, addressed to a younger me, written by a kindred dreamer in a time when the world was an open book and the future seemed fair and easy to navigate.
I have a box in a drawer, filled with photographs from the strangers of my past. Sheep in a pasture I've never seen. People playing pool, smoke tendrils lit from above, in a dark bar I don't know the name of. A polaroid that failed to develop, except for the bottom right corner, where you can see feet and bundled legs near a campfire.