The following is the works of a very tired FM whose attention was caught by a nodeshell.

I sit here, surrounded by boxes and catalogues, which out number anything I've bought, or ever considered buying from within their brightly printed pages.
The mailboxes outside of our apartments are all flagged with stickers.


All but one, number 13A. And behind the door of room 13A, are boxes, catalogues and a man too young to have such quantities of facial hair.
I must confess, I'm an addict. Not of drugs, not of sex, not of Social Media Browser-based games, but of Junk Mail.
Maybe it's because the only real mail I receive are to remind me I owe some faceless corperation money, or if I'm really unlucky, my time.
Or maybe it's a lot simpler than that. Maybe brightly coloured, Special Sale! littered magazines, filled with things I'll never buy, from stores I'll never visit, are what floats my boat.
I first realised a problem was arising when I started allocating space for the junk mail I received.
I realised I was addicted when I started sorting them alphabetically, by store into boxes and never throwing them out.
So now I sit here, surrounded by boxes and catalogues, which I've all read from front to back, which I've circled items with a marker and from which I've decided every one of my purchases.
When did it become this way? It started off so innocently, all I wanted was a quick reference to things that caught my eye, something to thumb through when I had nothing better to do with my time, and now, now I don't know where my cat is, or what that odd smell is, or where I left my favourite shirt, but I do know what day it is.

Mail Day.

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