Dear sir, lately I have been thinking about how tiring it is to exist in a world full of flaws with inhabitants that exude a less than polite bearing. I find myself staring into dark open spaces that sometimes come with an undeniable urge of giving up what once was an insatiable desire to write. For the cause of such alarming problems I blame my dwindling faith on my capabilities. I am afraid to be swallowed up by the longing for things I can never be again for it is a road that begins and ends with self-destruction. For the reason why I am sharing this to you I will be forever clueless. Maybe I am just lonely because those people I call friends seem to be ignorant of my existence, or maybe, just maybe, my heart has grown fonder of you for, as you well know, I do not have siblings and opening up to anybody has never been a strong suit. That rational part of me still, from time to time, is persuasive enough for me to secure my once unbreakable hold to humanity but like all else I accquire, it slips away sensing that I will be the end of it. Other people even came to the conclusion that I am downright bad for this earth and the only reason for my existence is as a form of entertainment and something to loathe, naturally. Dearest sir, I hope it is not such an imposition that I have wasted a couple of minutes of your precious time just to whine. It is not my intention and I apologize. I just wanted to give my tattered gadgets and those attractive pieces of clean paper their much deserved break for they have been mutilated enough by these tainted hands. Again, thank you. It is somehow riveting that a living, breathing human being is reading these troubled thoughts because most days I only have inanimate objects such as a good book as company. For the third time, thank you for just being.