Mark's Pages

September 19, 2003:

The Backstreet Man writes a letter. Stupid, arrogant, childish, wrong. Puts it in an envelope, stamps it, puts it in a mailbox. A man in uniform takes it from the mailbox, puts it into a leather bag, drives away with it in a small van to an office where someone throws it into a bin. Another person feeds it into a machine, which feeds it into a different bin, which a pair of men in uniforms lift into a large truck, which takes it to an airport where it's transferred onto a very large jet airplane, which takes it to a new city, where it's unloaded from the airplane, placed into a different large truck, and taken to a different office where someone removes it from the bin and feeds it into a different machine, which feeds it into yet another bin, where it's found by yet another man in uniform, who places it inside a leather bag and drives away with it in a small van, to a neighborhood where the Peachskin Woman waits for it, expecting something entirely different.

Finding it in her mailbox, she reads it, tears it into tiny pieces, puts it in a new envelope, stamps it, places it back inside her mailbox. The same man in uniform who placed it there takes it away inside his leather bag, drives away with it in his small van to his office where someone throws it into a bin. Another person feeds it into a machine, which feeds it into a different bin, which a pair of men in uniforms lift into a large truck, which takes it to an airport where it's transferred onto a very large jet airplane, which takes it to a new city, where it's unloaded from the airplane, placed into a different large truck, and taken to the original office where someone, maybe the same person, removes it from the bin and feeds it into a machine, maybe the original machine, which feeds it into still yet another bin, where it's found by the very first man in uniform, who places it inside his leather bag and drives away with it in his small van, to the neighborhood where the Backstreet Man does not wait for it, stupid arrogant childish wrong feeb that he is, but where he finds it anyway, to his surprise, inside his mailbox one morning.

He was wrong, she was right. Did he ever tell her? Probably not.