​The letter was sitting there—unloved, overlooked, forgotten. The corners curled up where a cup of tea or a mug of coffee had rested, staining it indelibly. Had it even been read? The ring of dried liquid said yes, but the casual neglect suggested the opposite. Both could be true.

​I didn't know. I had only come into this shared office space today, and I had no idea who had sat here before me. The organisation was large, impersonal, and mercurial; people came and they went.

​So who was the letter intended for? Who wrote it? Had it been read and discarded in disappointment, anger, or frustration? Or just absentmindedness? Or, and this was equally possible, was it merely a discarded list or a missive deliberately left unsent?

​Should I even look? Did I care? The fact that I was considering it suggested I did, but then why hadn't I simply picked up the paper and parsed its contents? All this hesitation was keeping me from my purpose here: to produce similar, eventually stained scraps of paper that might, or might not, be read.

​Ah, what was the point?