It is mid-autumn, by the reckoning of my ancestors. And as I write this, a full moon presides over the land, its gravity pulling at my blood.

And as my heart beats, I wonder – is there another that beats in time to mine?

To you, who may be reading this.

I am neither lost nor lonely. Yet here I am, casting words as though they would fit into a bottle, to be set adrift to find who-knows-who, who-knows where, who-knows-when.

Messages in bottles. Do they not drip with romantic desperation? Be it a cry for help, or a random thought shared with no one in particular, they are always about reaching out from a desolate place, trying to connect with someone who understands.