Hello, you,

I am writing this letter today, in the same manner I’ve written countless others before. Same rhythm and tune, like composing a song.

It will float in the ether, waiting for a fire to start, dust particles lit aflame from friction, burning words because they never belonged.

That’s how it feels, when words escape a weary soul, a bow and arrow in the hands of someone who doesn’t know what he holds. I shoot the arrow until my arms go numb, sorry if it lands near your heart, while you were dreaming of a beyond. How else could I describe the affliction one suffers when words fire your soul, a fever with no threshold, burning for far too long.

I have crafted a world like none before, all in my head with these fingers and hands full of holes. As much as I try to grasp, it slips through like liquid gold.

So I cut it short once again. Another one in the books, another one with no end, just a sudden stop, never making it past the last bend. Perhaps I am wrong, blinded by foolish make believes, same rhythm and tune, I compose the same damn song.

-A.Garcia