Today, I look down from upon the highest peak I can reach without hopping a fence. I look, and I judge. I judge, and I yell. I yell, and I cry. I have been the victim of letters before. That is why I threw my mailbox off a cliff. Perhaps I have been forsaken?
If I am so wrong, then how did I get all the way up here? What did I do so right to earn the scorn of everyone, and still manage to maintain an edge?
My heart tells me I am standing in the wrong place. I take an elevator back down the hill -- more of a ski lift, really -- then hop a train out of town. The harsh reality is that my starting point is the most familiar place to me for many miles to come. I drink a can of apple juice, and take an afternoon nap.
They kick me off the train for talking too loud in my sleep, but the joke's on them: Short of one mile, I've reached my destination. I decide to walk the rest of the way. It's a good thing I travel light.
The sun decides to leave the sky for a little while, and the only things keeping me company are a few tumbleweeds and some galloping lizards. They aren't much fun, and they keep asking me if I know Judy. I don't.
I finish the mile and end up where I had meant to. The spot is barren except for a small, lonely cabin. I peek inside. There is a made bed with chocolates on a pillow, and a letter.
The letter is for me:
"Dearest One,
I'm glad you could make it, but it looks like I couldn't. Duty calls. Once again, I'm needed by those who depend on me. Also, I got bored of waiting around in the cabin. Let's meet up soon.
Love,
The Object of Your Desire"
I get tired of these letters.
