I write to you from waiting for the world to end. I will leave this in a desk drawer. I sat here for many years. The buyout transformed it into furniture.
I put the best face on things. I adhere to routine. I do not discuss it. Sometimes I think about buying a gun. But I do not know what I would do with it.
The future used to look like the present except a little bigger like it was in a mirror. I felt like I could walk to it.
Lately, I have started going to a different bar. It is long and narrow and smoky. It is lit with Christmas lights and has Madonnas and tinsel and country music. I listen to the jukebox. I think about furniture. I drink until continuity breaks.
I do not know what it will be like on the far side of the end. It makes me anxious. I wanted to say that to someone. So I write to you. I do not know who you are.
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I had a dream about walking into a space made from letters written by people abandoned by contemporary capitalism. I forgot most of what I saw there. Except this one.