Dearest Susan, 

I would say I hope this letter finds you well, but since there is no mail system, and no home address to send to, I know I’m writing to the wind. But maybe the air will carry my memories to you. On a fall leaf, or a spring flower blowing through the air. I wonder if you are still in Arizona? If so, did you suffer? The heat from the central blast probably made it to you. I think about you sometimes. Late at night when the air is cool, I imagine we are back in your Corvette, counting stars while you rested your head on my chest, your hair smelling of strawberries. Or when I pass an abandoned movie theater, I can taste the butter from the popcorn on your lips, rich and full of life.
All of this is fantasy, but nostalgia is a powerful drug, and sometimes it is all we need to carry on. In this daily abyss I try to see the light at the end of the tunnel, something to hold onto. But every corner turns into another embarrassment to humanity. Every time we get news from neighboring towns, it gets darker and less hopeful. What if we are the last generation? What if the earth has indeed had enough of us? Our wars seem so petty now. What we would give to go back to such ignorant arguments? To the victors go the spoils, but what victory is this life? 

Anyway, If you ever close your eyes and feel the wind kiss you, I hope you imagine me, and it gives you some small comfort, 

Yours,
Thomas.