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Dear FutureMe, Happy Birthday. It is my 23rd birthday. 55 minutes after the chime of the bell. The only birthday message I got so far was the burnished regurgitation of the spittle of A.I. generation. Could not think of a more pathetic way to start off my day if I tried. I feel awfully desolate. Of course -- what else explains the persistent isolation I have been banishing myself into for the past... cannot-even-count amount of years? I am thinking it probably all spiralled out of control during my exile in Tokyo, where I was left by myself, in my wary tendencies to sulk and be taciturn, while spiraling into the midst of what was probably clincal depression (and an eating disorder). It rewired my brain like how the blood stains of war would do to a wide-eyed pink-freckled vet. I was never the same. It is not as if I really feel an acute sadness, really. I feel... mildly lonely? Just slightly, perceptibly unhappy with where I have led myself into? The opportunities I let fly--no, flung with full force--past me and tumble into the abyss of before? But, still-- But what, Chaerin? What? What is it that you could possibly say? You lose the only thing that discerned you out of the rest. You let yourself be benumbed and emaciate your being. And what would become of you? A shell of a cicada, wispy-thin and ghostishly white, perrennially longing for the squirming flesh and warmth that let it lay nascent for all those years. And yet--it is your birthday. Happy 24th birthday. I hope it is a good one. I hope the weather's nice. That you taste the crisp tartness of fall produce. That the sky is just the right amount of blue. That the fall air that tumbles through your lungs with a deep intake of breath is sweet and raw and round. Best, Chaerin