So I was trying to think of something out in the world I particularly liked, some object unique, public, something unlike anything else in all the world, something perfectly San Francisco.

It was hungry work, so I left my office and headed down the street to grab some snacks. And then I saw it: something that made me realize that something same, something drab and innocuous, could be, nay must be loved. It was a mailbox, but one unlike the ones I normally interacted with in my quotidian mailing moments. This was an entirely closed off box, a waystation used only by mail and mailmen. This mailbox selects its own society, not deigning to speak to the everyday riff-raff whose letters and packages it carries safely in its gut. This mailbox is the perfect confidant: recieving all our secrets, only relinquishing them to an entrusted compatriot who, through rain and sleet and snow and ice, will get them where we need them to go.

Also, I like its shape.

Anyway, I wrote it a letter (more of an ode/manifesto really). Here it is: