Drifting the outer rims of the postal pocket dimension, a lone mailbox gently rusts as it’s ravaged by the slow unstoppable passage of time. Festering within the dark confines of the tin contraption, a small cluster of creased unopened letters; their addresses faded into a peculiar mangled patchwork of damp ink splotches. The senders but a bygone memory, blissfully unaware of the undelivered words that remain stagnant gathering dust in perpetuum. Tamper with these postal relics trapped in stasis at your own discretion, one knows not of the void’s mailman.

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