Letter I Never Sent

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Our Comments:
We like this author because she sure is someone. We think she's funny AND smart. We're thinking of inviting her over for beer-n-crumpets. We'd like her company. You would too.

Every Time You Have a Beer

I listen to your shit. Everyone has a past, damn it. And yes, I have good ea...

Our Comments:
This author is special to us because she wrote two of our favorite letters when we first launched the site. Almost a year later, we still think about "My Car Broke Your Heart" and wonder also if we know people who smile like dolphins. Basically, she affected us. Sometimes that's all that matters.

My Car Broke Your Heart

Amy, Do you remember the night we talked ourselves into the hole? I kept fall...

Our Comments:
This author writes in a curious way. He makes us see things with words. We sometimes forget that we're reading and instead feel like we're watching his insights playing out in our minds. Perfect. Until our boss walks over and recognizes that we've been in that land called "la-la" for a few moments. We think about feeling worried, but for some reason we aren't. Needless to say, we like this author because he lets us escape from our daily lives, and he shows us things we've never seen before.

The Fainting Life

Desire is life persisting to go on, when you know, somehow, you are exiled fro...

Our Comments:
This writer is our nomad. His words travel hard, packed in a suitcase or an insatiable soul, they roll on, beckoning to be opened--to be given a chance. The following letters proactively speak on redemption in the form of ink-to-paper. The author knows all too well that the odds are against him. Against us. Though he continues to map out our fate curiously with wordy equations and hopeful sentiments; if x=y please tell us that y is worth it. We want him to know that his coordinates are just, worthy, and bright. We will call him our "Atreyu" of sorts. Because if he gives up now - The Nothing could surely consume us all.

We Are A Broken People...

How sad it is to see that we can't even come in contact with each other without ...

Our Comments:
Well. Let's just say this letter is encouraging--to say the least. Yeah, we should all write more. Maybe treat our pens better too. We chose this letter because we thought it was funny, but mostly ironic. Mainly because we didn't feel like writing much about anything this time around. Take it as you will.

To My Pens . . .

All of you pens just lie there on my table. You never leave. You just lie ther...

Our Comments:
This author. *sigh* Our little dreamer. Everyone must know her and if they don't we feel very sorry for that. To have the dreamer reminding us to question--everything-nothing--is to have a compass while stopping by the woods on a snowy evening. So what if you don't know how to use the compass. It's still there, a circle in the palm of your hand telling you that east is east. And west be west. She's the companion who whispers, be brave, be weak, be something. She makes every mundane detail in life feel poignant. After all, it is. Sweet idealist, always hiding behind a shot of sarcasm in a sly attempt to make us think she doesn't dreem all that much. We know she does. And we admire her for that. She's our Peter Pan with her closed eyelids and quiet smirk; "To live would be an awfully big adventure."

An Unfinished Thesis

Dear Director I'm sorry, my prospectus is going to be late. My brain has...

Our Comments:
it's 2:04am in the current world of letter i never sent. back east, it's 5:04am, which seems like the real time. we have to pick this letter here and now. not because we're drunk and feeling sentimental. more because this author writes about personal things. and like meg ryan says in you've got mail, "whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."

Damn Geese

I sit here now, the same place you did, except they must have fixed the light ac...

Our Comments:
Our favorite time to pick a featured author is late at night (cock-a-doodle-doo) -- when we think all the world is sleeping. Though, with time zones and the science of the sun and all that bologna, we realize: people are always awake. Right?

Anyway, maybe this author is the one. The one who really keeps the wide eyes. He seems to believe in his words. And whether he's right or wrong -- we don't care. We love (hints of) conviction.

Letters To Nobody

dear ravi no matter how ridculously you can behave... you're still fun. altho...

Our Comments:
Back at the offices of LINS, corp. -- before the game of Frisbee and in-between a rerun of Golden Girls -- one of our colleagues discovered something. What was it you ask? Answer: A gold mine of - brilliance!

We know what you're thinking:
a) Do you really have an LINS office, and colleagues to boot?
b) You watch The Golden Girls!?
c) Brilliance? Isn't there a drought of that stuff this year?

Here's how we're answering:
a) No. But if we did have an office and people, it would be pretty damn cool.
b) No. Our friends watch it though, and our friends are pretty damn cool.
c) We can't be sure. We did, however, find a massive amount of "it" in the author below. See for yourself -

i played track 6 & track 7 again & again...

D., It's been a while. (It seems like whenever I write you, it's always 'bee...

Our Comments:
We don't know her personally, though we think of her often--when we wish for good and righteous things. We think we love her and want the best for her, too.

If we were Bokononists (which we're certain we are). She would be part of our karass.

A letter to Toby

Dear Toby I don't know quite how to start this letter to you, because ...

Our Comments:
With the onset of winter rollin' into town, we've got the most annoying case of the sniffles, a whooping cough or two - just colds galore. To top it off, we're choosing a letter that makes our stomachs hurt. There is a method to our madness, mind you. We heard from a doctor or a drugged-out friend that if something hurts, one should tip the scales and make something else hurt -- as to distract him from the original ailment. Makes sense. If you have a rickety knee, ask someone to punch you in the face. We swear - you won't be minding that rickety knee no more!

Get the point? Essentially, we're picking the stomachache over the runny nose. Sometimes all that aching can be most inspiring. ::sigh:: to you, dear aamurusko.

Nate

We were both broken that summer--you from too many car conversations with Jody, ...

Our Comments:
After you read this letter you should go for a long drive north of nowhere. Make a mix tape. Yeah, do that. Be certain your first track is the one song that keeps your allies cringing and wincing: "This song is so depressing. Ugh. Boo! Er. Eh." You know that song, right? The one you listen to alone because no one wants to share it with you. Keep it your secret then (the abrasive adoration you have for the things that aren't perfect.) - Put your left blinker on. Pull out of your parking spot. Press repeat. And try not to smoke too many cigarettes. Because this letter (like your song) -- is a killer.

Regrettably so, I might add.

Dear X, There is no difference between love and hate. The veracity with wh...

Our Comments:
This letter makes us want to shoot whiskey. Reminisce with the old crew in a dangerous, maddening, balls-to-the-wall way.

The writer pours his memories on the rocks. We smile, sigh, ask for another. When the lights start flickering, we're drunk on his words -- we know we're going to feel like shit in the morning.

Somehow, the author's last call slips us a hint of redemption. Drunk as we are, we conclude: maybe even if we're living our life wrong ... we're somehow living it right. Someone -- somewhere -- remembers us.

Raise your goddamn glasses to Mikey F.

...

Our Comments:
Because this author makes us want to reach for our phone. Call our partner in crime, and insist:

"Lake Michigan. You. Me. Let's say 11:11 on Sunday afternoon. It's about time we became rocks."

Click.

I am a Rock

I found this rock on the shore of Lake Michigan, smooth, worn down with what I'm...

Our Comments:
Because we steal from the carnies and priests, too.

...

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