A letter from May 14, 2024

dear charlie, how is life? i know i have written letters in the past, and sent them on their way, but i do not know when they will arrive. i do not recall their contents. i might have talked about past crushes or fictional characters, i might have complained about geometry, but i cannot make out the shape of the messages i have sent. they elude me like a cloud of dust that i can only grab at. life is tiresome and long, and i find myself not wanting to continue, but being unable to stop, like some addiction. the air i breathe is like taking a drag of a cigarette, wanting to go out into the cold night atmosphere and just inhale over and over, and the feeling of feeling things is what keeps me surfacing, i think. it's like a sensory deprivation tank. i wish i could feel more things. i wish i could feel too much. all i know is that im a ****** and im *** as **** love, charlie