Just outside my writer’s residence stands a mailbox. Like all others in my city it is a crimson one. High on its pillars, its back turned to the canal and slits invitingly opened to us all, this bright red everybody’s friend almost begs you to fill it up with your letters. Evening after evening the mailman comes by, empties it and hurries all letters over to the addressees. But, happy and helpful as it is, this red mailbox is a dying breed. Every day again less and less letters are deposited in its confidential entrails. The day the postmaster will come by to carry it off it is nearing quickly. One day soon this crimson mailbox will pass into obscurity like a forgotten writer.…