The voice of a gray face taps on my door with petite and pale knuckles.
I open it to find no stranger there. No one there, at all.
I snatch at the note taped to the warped and weary wood. A miser clutching his preciousness.
I can't read the anonymous handwriting. The letter speaks of ideas I have long since stored away in a filing cabinet labeled "Not Feasible".
The confusion in my eyes is as plain as the characters on the page.
I don't understand.
9:28 p.m. - 2015-05-28
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