Every day for a month I wrote letters filled with things I can’t actually say.
At the end of the month I went through the letters and scribbled all over them, writing out all of the reasons why I can’t say the things I can’t say.
Then I put the letters in envelopes adressed from this girl who lives in Massachusetts, Rebecca Dear.
The corrections are typeset and printed in red ink.
I love letterpress because it’s delicate labour.
Who are the letters too?
You don’t get to know!
Sup, privacy.
