a white mailbox with its lid open.

he was a man with colours jumbled about his feet. the wind wrote him a letter, and he read it. he read the entire thing one and a half times. he stood alongside the afternoon and from his fingertips spilled colour in gritty cursive bursts.

Sand-filled colour flurried and tumbled from his fingertips, and soon after, the letter from the wind found itself stained by the complexions scattered about this man's feet.

he read the letter one and a half times, and the first to shatter and crumble were his hands.

a white mailbox with its lid open.