I am writing you this letter because you are in pain. This is what you tell me when we speak over the phone. I am writing to you as a record that someone has taken the time to write you a letter. You are in the future and I am in the past. It is 6pm and your dinner is getting cold as you eat it in winter. Here, it is spring and it’s 3pm and I haven’t thought of dinner. I haven’t thought of anything. I haven’t grown a garden. I haven’t sewn a shirt or hand washed a delicate. You are losing your beauty. This is what you tell me. You are losing your hair and your belly lays over itself. This, you never imagined. All that folding. All the creasing. Like origami. Soon you will be a crane or a frog or a vase. Soon you will be all these things. Another type of beauty. Another type of useless.