Schizophrenic's View of the Postal Service

Thousands of pressed white sheets in disordered piles, here, around me. Envelopes to hide thoughts in. Stamps come flying out of drawers as short, fat women smack them on envelopes, filled with warped dreams and incestuous Desires. Packages hurtle toward me, stop, turn, fall into bins with the rest. They wait silently for me to move and then they will lash yout with their string and tape and pull me down into their brown paper Wrappings and kill me. Men in uniform run around frantically searching for whatever it Is they’re looking for; me, but I am hidden behind the cellophane tape and I become invisible. Faces peer solemnly from magazines, but they are cursing and screaming at me. Lights flash on and off. They stay off while the uniformed men pull at blades of metal covering the windows. Signs are Plastered on the walls shrieking their messages of closed minds, closed eyes, closed doors. And I have not moved. Scared of strings and paper I hide in cellophane.