As I was contemplating the last letter, I noticed a fairly big problem. The trick. It didn’t work. Once I sensed my intention to publish this letter, my writing changed—“when I had some kind of external audiences in mind,” indeed. But who did I really intend to write for? I mean, if I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone’s gonna read this, I probably should try to understand the essence of that “someone,” right? ...
To the me of tomorrow, I just wrote a short daily memo to you before going to bed. I had to, or your brain may have dropped something important or precious by dawn. Post-COVID brain fog is really infuriating, huh? Nonetheless, writing that memo was actually fun—I didn’t have to think much, just letting whatever came to mind manifest through my fingers. In a similar vein, I was shocked that people actually read my Steam review of Citizen Sleeper. ...
Once upon a time, within the tendrils of a misty forest—where spirits coiled around ancient oaks—there was a yellow-brownish fox traveling along a gravel path. Let’s call her Citrine. She was a curious fox. Citrine yearned to uncover the mysteries veiled behind the eerie mist, away from the beaten trail. She wanted to know. She wanted to experience. But she was afraid. She had always been taught to stick to the path. ...
I’ve been wanting to do this for a pretty long time. Wanting to set up a place. A place to write things, where I own what I write. A place not at the whim of some random megacorp walled gardens. A place that represents who I am and what I do. A place I can point people …