Sometime last year the phone booth around the corner disappeared. First it was the phone itself, replaced by a sheet with excuses from the company for the temporary disturbance. Shortly after that, the whole glass shelter was torn down. Now garbage is piled there.
This morning it's the post box's turn. It is, or was, one of these bright red british pillar boxes that are, or were, common here. As I pass by, the two workers have just finished uprooting it. It lays fallen on the pavement, like some kind of dangerous mushroom. Tthese things are cast iron and terribly heavy, so one of the men is driving the truck as near as possible. In it, two other boxes were already stacked.
I love letters and, as an old portuguese lady writer once said " waiting for the mail lessens the wish to die "*. But this is true of emails too.
All the same, it feels somehow threatening to me that all public ways of communication get sistematically removed and destroyed, while the private means thrive (or pseudo-private, they are so much easier to monitor).
"Esperar pelo correio afasta a vontade de morrer" Agustina sobre CCC, de memória. Hmm, pensando melhor, deve ser o desejo de morrer.