The mind, a museum of unopened letters. How many unsent drafts sit gathering dust in the cloud, not just letters, but poems, rants, half-formed business plans? I wonder if the digital graveyard will be more or less forgiving than the analog one; at least the algorithms won't judge my handwriting. All those could-have-beens, neatly filed away in the archives of regret. It's not the things I did that haunt me, but the words I left unspoken, the bridges I didn't build. Funny how silence can be so deafening, even years later.