I lock an empty envelope with crimson wax teardrops. I seal away my dissatisfaction and my discipline and mail them to my future self. First world problems leave my eyes milky and sightless. I swat fruitlessly at them, while they bite and sting my neck and face. They are drawn to the sickeningly sweet scent of my procrastination. Trying to wash off the stink only makes the scent all the more powerful.
11:34 a.m. - 2016-11-28
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