The Stamp's Stroke of Madness

The envelope never knew it had a stamp, but the letter had a destination to reach when it landed in the mailbox. At least, the madly scrawled address on the front of the botched envelope said so. The words argued otherwise, but they were too in tune with amber-red wine to put up a good fight. It simply didn’t matter in that moment of reckless release. They were in a jam (no bread to lay their worries on). So they sat, amidst the bills, wrinkled postcards, and penciled-in applications, who offered ineffective condolences to the quivering words in their haste. They wailed, wanting something else. They finally settled down, still wanting something else. Maybe the right to blur into an inky, illegible mess. It was a nice thought, but postage marks have little mercy in times of flight. So blessed be to the postman, an ordinary man set to deliver an unordinary letter. Blame it on the stamp little words. Blame it on your creator.