The post office is at the center of it all.

Quite literally, it is the center point of stationary hill,

a strange, sprawling, warehousey kind of a building right in the middle of town.

It's topped by a massive communications mast,

this giant spindly scaffold of a tower from which there stretches and interminably long black

cable reaching off skyward.

It's super obvious.

You cannot miss it.

And it's a busy place this morning.

Inside the warehouse, meandering between towering racks of freight, piles of crates, imported goods, and innumerable parcels.

A winding line of people are waiting for their mail.

At the very front of the line is Mr. Weep about to receive his daily shipment.

The postmaster floats weightlessly down from a high

altitude shelf, package in hand, and yes, the postmaster floats. More on that later. And hands the

parcel over. Next, he yells, and Mr. Weep turns to go, cheerfully toting his parcel under one arm.

Yes, Mr. Weep has got a good day ahead of him. A very good day. A very good week, too, as a matter of fact. A great month, even, while we're at it, honestly, just between us.

The rest of Mr. Weep's days, period, are on track to be mighty prosperous.

He is going to do very well for himself. His future is very bright.

There is no quantity of anguish on the road ahead for him. No misery. No hatred, no violence, absolutely no ruin. Provided, of course,

that he doesn't bump into this round, smiling, matronly little woman who unexpectedly emerges

from a doorway just there. And he does. Oops.

Yep, never mind.

...