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Casual in stride, the delivery contractor ambles up to the post box. Readying the package for a fold, he attempts to cram the sucker right through a slot larger than others but still too small for the crumpling envelope. Knocking at the door a few seconds later, the beard jumps back a bit at the quiet approach, unsuspecting of the response time and the absolute otherworldly quiet with soundtracks in the background.
No signature needed and barely closing its lips, a swag with lollies surely not fit for consumption, a black T and a cap bearing the visage all Gothic like of Kate Beckinsale.
An hour later, a letter eight days in transit over the mighty oceans. Two days outside being able to wish for something on a day of occasion where the fortunate eat records and LPs.
Wednesday, 1 March 2006 - 07:11
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