Why Newspapers Must Never Dally With Literature

The paper boy doesn't
know he is the messenger
of love. Infinitesemally
eroding the big moldy
chunk of familiarity;
as he attempts his
cupid arrows at
greying, plastered,
receding tenements.

His concern is
one of time; and
accuracy. Of
unrecognized
missives devoured
unfaithfully.

It is, after all,
those tyrant,
letters-of-men,
seeding in us;
ourselves.