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Tuesday - 11:31 a.m.

I have decided to stop opening my mail. I have been getting nothing but junk and catalogs for stuff I don’t need or want. Lately, the actual mail I receive has had nothing but problems in it. I'm sick of mail that causes me problems. The mail sucks.

Today there was a postcard waiting for me from Lysa (a once-upon-a-time-in-a-galaxy-far-far-away girlfriend of mine). Lysa had black hair that looked like midnight and felt like it was spun silk. Her skin was as soft as cashmere and smelled like lavender tea.

I hadn't received a post card from Lysa in almost eighteen months. I thought maybe they had finally stopped coming.

Lysa had herself committed to an asylum about a year after we stopped seeing each other. Usually I blame myself for girls’ peccadilloes after we hook up, but I never really blamed myself for Lysa's mental anguish. It was probably because Lysa's mother already did and that took the onus off of me to do it myself. Lysa's mother was quite the piece of work. She voiced her disapproval of me dating her daughter by once announcing that I was "the cause of all the unhappiness in the world” at Thanksgiving dinner.

Lysa had deep-seated problems and I had applauded her efforts to get help for them. Sadly, even with help Lysa didn't seem to get any better. She spent only six months in the asylum before checking out and moving in with her grandmother back in India. I used to get a postcard from Lysa once or twice a week. Sometimes the postcards would come every day for days at a time. A lot of the times the postcards would be blank, but more often they were just one or two sentences long, maybe three. She always wrote in red ink. They were just random thoughts that she put to a postcard and then mailed to me. It was like old school text messaging.

Eventually they trickled down to one every other month, but still the postcards kept arriving, and they kept coming even after Lysa drowned herself in the Ganges River.

There was some insanely long mail lag between where she was in rural India and here, so her postcards kept coming to me for a while after she died. Then they stopped. That is, until today. This one is a full letter, not a postcard. This one is six pages long. I can't read it though because it seems to be written entirely in Hindi.

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