the post office decorated itself with euro-despair. out of ten colleagues nine drink tea, one works with the gloomy turns in three tales. the sender address is always incomprehensible and meager. the happy citizen, after reddening from pride, wrote its timid “why?” and sent it with the address indicated, and its entire life remained to run away from the infinite rivers of paper which pour into the mailbox. today i read the revelations of one lady about wadded cowards, a very capacious expression for desperation. the spring breaks in the room from yesterday. it crashes, winds percolate, raising whiskers to domestic lassitude in its colored house. soon it will go through the walls as in the past year.