It's late on a Sunday night, and perhaps I've availed myself of a certain supplement to aid one's slumber; yet while one does not bed down, reality appears to get a little carmelly around the edges, yes, fringed by long and supple ropes of warm sugar...
No more on't. I have ideas, not the least of which is a series of road trips or flights out of the country, for whose destinations are themed along the lines of postal offices and stationery. For did we not ourselves haul our silly butts across Iowa at break-neck speed, hurling ourselves into Fort Madison, IA, and tumbling up to the doorstep of Pendemonium with half an hour to spare? True, true!
Did we not, in fact, scrape through traffic and family drama to observe, at our leisure, the Museum of Russian Art in our own fair city? Ah yes, and after the primer as to what the hell was going through those enlightened and suppressed minds, we made our way to the basement, at least the lowest level of this structure, and followed a canal of political upheaval and social editing as envisioned and reflected by judiciously arrayed Soviet postage stamps. It was a particularly edifying night, giving us a strange dark faith that durstn't speak its name.
To extrapolate upon the idea, why may not two reasonable, sensible adults of wisdom further pitch out to our nation's capital, say, and visit the National Postal Museum? No reason, sir, none at all to keep us planted and stationary, none save that of our own procrastinative proclivity. Being a new year and all, let us thence resolve not to succumb so very much to this restive effect of potential motion and, at the cost of one slim carbon footprint, touch down upon Washington D.C., hail our acquaintances, and traverse forthwith to this delightful museum of special interest.
And then before this cake rises perilously high, may we consider its icing? Blists Hill Post Office, in Ironbridge Gorge Museum, England. Is it too much to dream of, to set foot inside this hallowed chamber, to beseech a stationer that we may hear of his wares?
Too much, too much for the likes of I! I can do many small amazing things, many small but unbelievable acts bordering the supernatural, but this is too much for one such as I. And, as such, turn I my eye inward to the nation and begin to design what may be one here, within my borders, within my reach...
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