A half-mad letter was in my pocket all day.
All day it reminded me of disturbing things.
Things were not going well.
Not all.

In the number of removed light,
it sent itself out, with distraught messages,
things no one wanted to hear,
least of all, me.

Its letters were moving around in my pocket,
how things should always be good,
but they never are.

It wanted the blueprint of memories.
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