by G W Thomas

I'm stuck in the mailbox on Hamilton. Don't ask how I got in here. I just want out. It's dark in here. And cramped. My right leg is resting against my shoulder. The other is trapped under me. The pain is excruciating. I was able to get a hold of this post card. I have no pen but my blood will do for ink. I've been in here almost two days now. Why doesn't the postman help me? He just laughs. I'm so hungry. My right leg is beginning to smell very tempting. Hurry.

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