#1336-Fast
28/03/2021
Old, wooden mailbox.
With a key, in plain sight.
Simpler times.
Hand-written letters.
Delicate, colorful stamps.
Years vanish.
Wood, transitions to brick.
Letters, replaced by email.
Magic, bowing to instant gratification.
There was a time,
When we prepared,
To gently walk into nothingness.
Now we run.
Seems we just cannot get there,
Fast enough.
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