POSTAL Just something to fill the spaces; a part-time job so the hours don't simply blend into one long monotonous, meaningless elapsing of time an escape, so the walls won't seem like they're closing in when my pen is perched above paper and the words fail to appear an excuse, a chance to do something productive, to prevent feeling like a total failure when the mailbox is full of rejections so I can get away from myself when it's dead-bone quiet, where the strange voices start hissing in my ear, urging me to carve a pattern on my wrists... then again, work isn't always the perfect escape, and the absolute worst thing you can have around is a disgruntled employee