To: Curt, From: Curt

It is nice to get something in the mail, even if it is from yourself. So today, I sat down at the table and wrote a long letter to myself. I folded this letter up carefully and shoved it into an envelope and wrote my address on it and went on a walk with the dogs and dropped my letter off in a mailbox three blocks from my apartment.

Tomorrow, I should get the letter. I will open the letter and read what I wrote. But in the mean time, I will try to forget what I wrote about so that when I read the letter tomorrow, it will be surprising and enjoyable.

What could be in a letter to myself?

I could write about so many things. I could write about last year at this time. Last year at this time, I was full of so much, so much, there is not a word I can think of that describes what I was full of, so, I was just full, of so much. You did not know me then! Can you believe that? I know I can't. But it's true. Our paths did not yet cross. I did not make butter. I was scared and excited, but I am still scared and excited. That is not such a novel feeling.

In a letter to myself, I could write about my new old job as a paper deliveryman or the dream I had last night about Rick Snow. Rick, I dreamt you called me and when I answered the phone, you called yourself and put me on hold to talk with Rick Snow.

In a letter to myself, I could write about writing a letter to myself. What does this mean, keeping myself company in this way? Is it something beyond loneliness? It must seem awfully pathetic because it is, really. It really is and yet, if this was what I were to read in the letter to myself, I would sympathize, and what would that mean then?

You know so little. And so much. It is unfair to tell you that what I did today was write a letter to myself, although I did. But I also sat at the table before I wrote the letter and drank coffee and thought about things that people always think about but are too ashamed to write or talk about. I wanted to break. And before that, when I woke up, I took a shower and afterwards, climbed into bed, naked and cold. I thought of people and situations and I thought of the things I'd say. Witty or provocative things and replayed these situations over and over again with new things to say. It is nice to be Curt. A bold Curt. A smart Curt. A curt Curt.

After I wrote the letter, I licked the envelope. I wondered if maybe the letter would never make it to Curt. I wondered if it would get lost in the mail. Lost. So many things are meant to have a place to go and end up lost. But even lost things like to hear about loss.