Sorry I haven’t written. Things have been crazy. Or perhaps I wish they were, who knows. As far as the GodOfLostMail goes, I think it’s probably a little bit different than you’d imagine. I’ll bet the lucky postal workers who get to go through the dead letter bin really like thier jobs, that’s one group of government employees that I have absolutely no fear of being shot by. So in essence, the lost mail itself is the God, the poor postal workers are the Heathen Hordes, and by reading the Word, they learn more about themselves. Hey, perhaps the mail even gets itself lost on purpose, things un-said, thoughts un-thought, feelings un-feeled.

Ok, so that was a stretch, my brain is tired.

You mentioned that you thought I was caught up in some vast conspiracy. You are somewhat right. I’m not really sitting on a beach, a perpetual tourist, waiting for the waves to erode me some surf, all the while trying to escape the roving margarita salesman. That is however how I feel about my life at the moment, I’m just riding it out, waiting for some waves. All the while feeling somewhat misplaced and desperately trying not to buy whats being sold me, all the while getting irritating bits of sand stuck in my shorts. I say ‘all the while’ way too frequently. probably a side effect of the tiredness. I keep mistyping words too. Oh well, you know how that goes.

Often, it’s good to listen to the phantom, whether it be a bodyless voice in your head, or a wrinkly old image of your grandfather back from the grave. While one might make for a more convicing argument, they are both of equal importance. Old Will and Ken wouldnt both have written of the phenomenon if it didn’t have some importance. I wish I could find the courage to face the phantom myself, rather than just not listening.

So did this mysterious dark haired barmaid do a role reversal and tell you some of her problems? I always thought that would be kind of ironic in a really neat way. I mean, she hears everyones problems all evening long, even tho that tends to make ones own problems seem paltry in comparison, there is probably a bit of a desire to vent your problems for once. So when you offered to go buy her some fags, did that come out sounding as desperate as it sounded to me? Or was it a charming kind of desperate? That’s the kind I always hope for yet never seem to achieve.

I want to go back and delete that whole god of lost mail thing, it made absolutely no sense, but I suppose it warmed me up to the whole writing thing, and the trains of thought that follow it may have difficulty travelling to their destination without the track layed down in front of them. Hey look at that, a metaphor. And an improper form of lay. Probably anyways, I can’t be sure at this hour.

Well, I’ve illustrated my inability to keep up a facade for very long. Started out trying to put up a secret agent image, and by my second letter I’m already the same old Phil. Oh well, hats, moustaches and dark glasses don’t seem to suit me well. I guess if I just stick to being myself, one of these days I’ll figure out who I am.

Good to hear from you again, Phil