He wrote the letter and placed it in a business-sized envelope. In his best writing, he wrote her name, her address on the front.

It was hard to tell where they were going. The sun had long since set, and all the land, farms, and sky blended together to form a dull, nondescript scenery. Off in the distance, a tower's red light blinked on, off, on, off. It reminded him of being lonely. But then, everything did.

She closed her eyes and thought hard. It was summer; the hot sun shone through the trees, making shadows on the lawn. There was a lake, too. She could feel the cool air rise off the water. She could hear the gulls and the light waves and the flapping sails of a near-by sailboat. It had been beautiful. She could feel it.

And there she sat, in the darkened living room. Some band she didn't really care for played over the speakers. She held the keyboard on her lap, typing away furiously. She knew that nothing she was saying meant anything. She knew that it was all sentimental crap she had dredged up from the furthest corners of her cluttered mind.
She didn't care. She kept writing.