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Letters to the self and world. The paper was getting old, but it was never removed from where it lay in harmony with the dust and mustiness of the closet. Hid behind heavy winter coats that were seldom worn, it lay neatly folded and forgotten for five years and counting. A week later, another letter was slid under the door, after several minutes of ringing the doorbell. It was not murder and it was not suicide.

Deviant since Jun 7, 2014.

Parce que chaque personne voit la vie différement. Please enter the sequence of characters in the field below. Il y a un an je croyais que .

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