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Struggling for a sense of closure, the bottom flap on the mailbox seemed like having more trouble than usual coping with the load. Inside, along the ever present CDs and flyers, two A4 pieces of hatred from the postie's hand. One was a catalogue from the shores of the states for someone who doesn't exist and only gets these things for the sheer novelty value. A moment that dissipates within seconds of touching the surface. Like anthrax, only less lethal.
And the other, a scream full of DO NOT BEND PLEASE on the front and back. Inside, two boards of plastic taken from what look like signs posted about a place of work. Or similar. Workplace is a foreign concept. Pasted between the two boards, a bagged and boarded comic and a near slice of papercut mayhem. The comic, The Sentry, a forgotten hero of the Marvel Universe. His existence is refutable and the appearance of the comic itself on another morning which started at 1400 just as such.
The fact that it arrived at all means nothing. The scrawling of the name Paul Jenkins on a survey months back at a convention full of PoKéMoN and Dragonball Z was supposed to have been for the fact that the man wasn't coming down to Sydney. But was this limited or a free for all for all who wrote the man's name? The accompanying letter seems to suggest a mass mail out.
Thursday, 9 October 2003 - 06:02
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