Though with some, if the address were only Pepysicola, tenth muse, Dykersville, the letters would eventually get there, against all confinement and delay. One can think of countless exceptions to this ideal postal service, of course, but just wait. Or get to work, find a revised delivery system. For it is nothing but an allegory of textual remains in the end. At least it warms the imprisoned colonel to think so.
Letters are the last things managed to be scribbled or ascribed.
Of course, one wishes they were always at the snood before the fire. And the blood in bed. The ordinary ecstasy of raw cloth in its place.