Old letters fill the slots.
some opened, some not.
All part of the effect,
the atmosphere of a time long passed,
There is an urge to pull them out,
to brush off the dust and read,
to peek into another life that is not your own,
a life most likely long passed and done,
mere history, except perhaps
in the minds and hearts of family and lovers.
But you do not.
You have had your own life examined
like an archeological relic,
every detail measured
and mostly, misinterpreted,
a history created, a lively read perhaps,
unintentional fiction built in the minds and imaginations
of those that love and hate you,
And you are content to leave these letters as they were meant to be.
Props. No more. No less,
They are undelivered, and always will be.
The addresses handwritten in a script more elegant
than anyone uses today.
That is all I need to know to create my own fiction,
admitted and beautiful, with no pretense of any truth
except that they existed, and they mattered