Letters by Lowe

to whoever this finds,

you don't know me, and i'm about to write to you like i do. that's the trick of the job. usually there's someone behind you when it happens, pointing at you going “that one,” paying me to notice the things they've been noticing all along. today there's nobody behind you. still counts. samples are letters that couldn't wait for a name.

what i can see from here, without knowing a thing: you're reading this at an hour that's yours. you have one thing sitting in your drafts that you keep not sending, and it isn't even long. someone said a small thing to you this week and you replayed it more than you'd admit. and there's a mug near you with a story.

i'm guessing, obviously. close enough is the whole point. now imagine the aim with a name and three details from someone who loves you. a few hundred words, all of them pointed, none of them cards. that's what the full thing does.

this one stays open. keep it. it's real, it just isn't yours yet.

if you want one aimed at someone, the desk is open: [email protected]

lowe