Sometimes I sit and think about people. People I care about, friends, parts of
	my life. I think about them and sometimes I think about what they might be doing. And sometimes I imagine them thinking about, wondering about me as I wonder about thinking about what they're doing. And sometimes I imagine them thinking about me, and walking over to their desk and writing me for no reason.

And they sit, I don't know where, on what, I have no idea. They write, with
	what, on what, on a desk, in a room, in a life I am no longer familiar with. I can only imagine what paths they have taken, what paths have taken them. I can only stretch what I once knew of their lives into the years since I was an active part of it. I can only project what they might be. But they write, because they wonder about me, because I wonder about them.

I imagine their words traveling from their long-term memories of me, to their

short-term thought processes of what they wish to say, to their mental electrical impulses, down their arms, to their hands, fingers, writing utensils or keyboards, to the paper, into the envelope, the address, the stamp placed on its face, into a briefcase, purse, folder, or by the door, or perhaps right out of it, down to the mailbox. Into a truck, to the main post-office, into another truck, to a human, their mail carrier bag, and then into my mail slot. I pick it up, read it, reply or react or call as the case may be. Maybe experience some nostalgic trip back into my own past.

And sometimes I sit down and write those people who are dear to me across time.
	And sometimes when I'm doing that, I wonder if it is because they are imagining me doing so.

___ _-'" | "`-_ \ | / \ | / \__|__/

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A.U.B.I.E.|Out of Order