Someone told him that writing a letter to his future self could help motivate him, so he did. He worked his entire evening on it, sitting at his tiny table in the kitchen he hadn't cleaned in at least two months. He described things he hoped for himself: Happiness, a new job, maybe a partner, and some success with his stand-up routine. Basically, all the things he couldn't make himself work for now.

The letter made him feel more doubtful than anything. He had expected to feel energized, that listing his ambitions would motivate him. That had been the point, right?

Tucking the letter into an envelope, he addressed it to himself five years in the future, and sealed it. A letter fell onto the table in front of him. He looked up, but it seemed to have appeared from nothing.

It was addressed to him five years in the future. The return address was his own. Compared to what he'd just written, it was identical, except for the big, block letters unevenly applied in red stamp ink across the front: ADDRESSEE DOES NOT RESIDE.

Maybe he should write to three years in the future instead. And get life insurance.