Envelopes.

Envelopes.

My life is envelopes. Are you an envelope? I can't see through my folded paper eyes any more. But I can smell them now. I can taste them.

I'm on to you.
Envelope.

Today I packed and sealed one thousand, four hundred and fifty eight envelopes. In a row. I tried to eat my lunch, and between each granary roll lay an envelope covered in a thin layer of mayonnaise. It was rough, and it dried my mouth to eat them, but I did, choked down each cheerily designed slice of tender paper. Opening my fizzy drink, the fsssssst of the surging bubbles took me by surprise and droplets of water spat from the lid and fluttered and floated down toward the ground, landing as little rectangles of paper. Bending down to inspect them closer, I saw.

Envelopes.

After work, I handed my temporary worker's envelope to the kind woman behind the reception counter. She fluttered at me, her wide and gaping mouth spewing forth an invoice for £3.63. I exited the building and walked across the car park, stifling hot in my too-small shirt. I unbutton it- agh, paper cut. Getting into the car, the music that issued from my speakers was a, a rustling, and brown windowed squares flew from the air vents.

I drive, harrowed, my mind filled with a papery voice, offering a 31 day payment plan. Final notice, it said. The sun, a huge white rectangle looming on the horizon, was setting onto the brown fields. I pulled up to my envelope, and opened the flap.

I fell inside. I sit here now, on the TOTAL TO PAY line, gazing up at NEVER-END PENCILS x 15 £51.99, and I type, my fingers rutted and bleeding from each razor-sharp key press.

Tonight I will wrap myself up, and fold over the covers, my face pressed against the thin clear window. Did someone lick the adhesive glue? I see the flap close, slowly, slowly. I panic, mind filled with strange noises and the skchcreeeee of jamming franking machines.

My fear peaks; I am unable to move.

I am an invoice for eight thousand CARD- PINK units priced at £4.37 each.

The envelope closes.