It was a one-way correspondence; his letters were never returned.
Ink, like blood, should avoid contact with the skin. Ink, like blood, flows from the heart, released by fischers in the stream. Not natural, but built to serve a purpose. A purpose lost to the passage of time; still, the urge to maintain the flow remained. Though unrequited, unreciprocated, it was still understood to at least the self.
He wrote and he wrote. He wrote words that would either rot in a mailbox or in the pages of a journal. The journal, that was the uncertain path. To be discovered by his descendants, to be doomed to a landfill, or likewise, to be burried for centuries in an attic, until a time when everything within was irrelevant. All in all, the chances of survival were one out of three, at best.
The mailbox, however, wasn’t a matter of survival. Just a matter of whether survival meant anything.
It was a one way correspondence. But the speaker is always a strong one, even when speaking to def ears.