Dear me;It’s that time of the year I should confess by far I can’t write, I don’t really feel like talking to anyone these days I don’t trust my passport anymore. Wish you could tell me what’s happening to me? It’s 9; 51 I’m in this room still writing my thesis, struggling not to think about my deadlines it’s a quiet room I can’t write in my own room anymore. I’m transforming in to something icy I guess. I was just imagining how Liberia and Siberia sounds poetic as one they both speak together. If I could talk to her in Korean I would have told her life is too short drink some wine tonight then smile to the world that’s what I’ve been told and it worked for me. Could you please tell her for me? He picks up the envelope; he looks in to my eyes,I believe he is talking to me I’m trying to pick up his voice, sounds soft and low I’ve already missed half of the conversation, as always, when I catch him I hear; where is the destination of this letter I take a deep breath trying to pretend I’m calm though anyone could see the pink flame in my eyes by now, I say “No destination”, No destination is quite a destination he continues, they have asked for two quite different types & it’s been days I’m wondering why. Is United States a different country? he picks the envelope instantly, continues what is the difference? I hate to say that he reminds me of my childhood; “God created critical thinking so that I could travel to my childhood” Then I come back to my writing how I wish I were in New York tonight for all is crazy in there. My mind is still in the crit room, my phone never rings again.
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