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A letter from June 28th, 2015
It is the worst time of your life. You are 33 right now and before you realize - you will be 34. Still living with your mother?
I don't know what I want to tell you because everything seems unbearable to the point that you are thinking about your death, or at least drinking to the extent you will not remember anything or will not wake up. You just want someone to take care of you... but there is nobody who wants that too.
You feel pain. In many disguises... fear, rejection, depression, anger, sadness, your skin... your precious skin. How is she right now? Is she already gone, buried with your body? Are you alive? Is she alive?
You are not loved. It is the biggest pain of yours. You are not cherished, you are not told that you are beautiful. You are not pursued, you are not fought for... you are afraid that you are too ulgy to be loved. You are sure, you feel it... that your face will never be someone's favourite face. There will be women, so much prettier and you... who you are with that face?
I stopped caring about you. I stopped everything and abuse you in every way possible.
I am sorry.
Sent 5 years to the future, from June 28th, 2015 to 9 days ago
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