the postal service.

he sent letters to himself twice a week. sometimes he'd be too busy to write one and mail it off at the post office. those were the quiet tuesdays and the lonely fridays of the month. he would read his letters carefully, marvel at the insight of its sender and then tuck them away in a small wooden box by his dresser. nobody else knew of this consummate relationship.

police officers, responding to an anonymous tip, broke into his house one warm wednesday afternoon, and found him lying in a crumpled heap beside his dresser. lying by his outstretched right arm was an empty bottle of tylenol - sleeping pills.

his suicide note arrived in the mail two days later.