Yesterday I visited a forgotten place, probably the only public place deserted at lunchtime. No lines here, no worries choking up everyone in the room. Time seems to be slower here with only me and mostly a bunch of old people seating behind the counter with their envelopes and stamps. It was like entering a whole new world. One of them, a woman in her 60s, asked me for an address. Of course I knew she wasn’t expecting one with the @ or .com in it. It’s the physical, the tangible that she needed, where the loved one I wish to reach sleeps, bathes, breathes.