I see a small portion of a letter, sent into the mailbox of a complete stranger. Set into the ink there was a tiny bit of glass -- the clarity of feeling on a printer's pass. The raw excuses. The sliding sheets of rock. I could tell myself almost anything if I thought it would take a little less time to fall back into place. I feel a tremor. I guess lying to yourself isn't the answer to feeling small. These words -- I don't know who this even serves. Is this a document or sold out by its ill intent?