I am not myself right now... not entirely.
I am a ball of pain and hormones...
a broken entity awaiting my 42nd birthday...
a day to die perhaps...
or maybe, if hope be a thing...
a day to finally live...
So, I write me 21 letters...
and I write me 21 more...
in the 21 days til 42...
in the simple hope...
that there is hope.