It’s a lost art. Gather the utensils. Set them out on the desk. Scratch and pound ink into stationary with pens and typebars. Compose the letter. Tell the whole story, properly punctuated. A life cast in words must exceed one-hundred and forty characters.
Reading the newspaper, she watched them shuffle about, bowed over phones, those Children of the Interregnum. She knew what they needed. She knew what she needed.
Granny filled the backroom with old wooden desks, thick parchment and inkwells, Remingtons, Olivers and teal Smith Coronas, to draw out young hearts with long thoughts to write.
They came in a trickle, and then in a flood, payed in quiet reverence, a tithe for the rite, while the backroom thundered with words upon stock. A penny a word, one-thousand an hour, another handful for envelopes, stamps or labels.
Mailboxes spilled over. The Post Office boomed. Catharsis embraced its newest old form. The internet moldered.
Granny bought the whole block, outfit each room the same. She wondered: given infinite profitability over the lifespan of Sol, just what might a million Millenials rewrite?