Capsules whose senders chose to share them. Each was sealed long ago and opened only when its time arrived — names left behind, words kept.
To whoever I am at thirty — I hope you kept playing. I hope the guitar in the corner isn't just a shape that collects dust. Tonight it's the only thing that feels honest.
We found out today. By the time you read this you'll already know her face better than your own. So this is just to say: we wanted you before we knew anything else about you.
If the company made it, don't get smug. If it didn't, don't get small. Either way you learned the thing you were too scared to learn at twenty-six.
Mum — I know you'll be reading this without me. I set it for the day you turn seventy because I didn't want that morning to be quiet. Open the window. I'm still around in the light.
Note to self, one year on: the thing you are panicking about right now is not the thing that mattered. It never is. Go to bed.
We sealed this the night before the wedding, both a little drunk, both certain. If we ever forget what this felt like, here it is — proof, in our own handwriting, that we chose this on purpose.