Every day, the thought of writing something to you stiches my mind like an unseen yellowjacket catching me on the arm when I least expect it. The sting hurts. After a minute or so, the affected area swells—just like a real yellowjacket attack–and becomes a preoccupation. I wander along, slipping letters, magazines, and catalogues into mailboxes. Like an ancient insect’s ovipositor, my satchel opens to deposit packages on porches and stoops. Every delivery exacerbates the condition. Preoccupation becomes obsession.
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