mr. postman

in the mail

hey now, wait a minute mr. postman

the cute little door mail slots have lost their charm. for the postman, it’s an outdated symbol of unneeded extra exercise. on my end, in winter, it’s just a hole in the door.

the postman gets props. 5 flights of stairs is no joke. that’s where my love for the postman ends.

i can understand why he doesn’t want to come up my way. but i don’t like walking it either. i’m tired of going to hallesches tor to pick up my stuff. they ask for my passport, enter my number into some unknown system, print out a file before i can retrieve what rightfully belongs to me. i mean can’t we share the responsibility? sneaking away and leaving orange slips dated 2 days ago is just not cool.

at the post office, this lady was not paying even half a mind to me. she gave me my package and my passport back. i said thank you. she said. nothing. all in some other colleague’s business.

i turned around and left.


she chased me down, her yellow scarf flapping in the wind. i hadn’t signed the form with my passport number, name, and other unique identification characteristics.

worth all the trouble? for this (and this). i would have walked from berlin to kehl, into strasbourg and jetted to the closest fnac. thankfully all that isn’t necessary.

i’ve been waiting before verve proved shady and dropped the project last year. universal france is actually good for something other than star academy crap. meshell goes on rotation today.


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