Jim got into his car and was going to finally read that letter. It was the odd one that snuck in somehow.
He had a collection of old letters and oddball books. The letters were ones he found in trash cans, in abandoned houses, hidden in books at yard sales. Some were yellowed and worn, some so torn up and water damaged as to be almost unreadable as though individual words for some forgotten years floated in mold and blur and filth. Others were antiseptically pristine as though just finished and floated through some benign, dull wound and tear in space and time.