Write something now. We'll deliver it back to you when you've forgotten you wrote it.
Most of what we tell ourselves on a difficult day disappears by the next one. The intentions, the plain truths, the small promises — they fade with the weather. This is a way to keep one of them.
You write to yourself. You choose when it arrives. A month from now. Three months. A year. The words are yours alone — we keep nothing, we send the letter once, and then the thing is closed.
It will arrive on —.
Until then, we won't bother you with it. The next time you'll see these words, you'll be the person they were written for. Read them, when they come, with a little patience for who you were today.