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is having a hard time unearthing this thing called conversation, and so she tucks love letters throughout the house as a way to say, amp。quot。Come back to me. Find me when you can.amp。quot。 Or a girl who decides that she is going to leave love letters around her campus in Dubuque, Iowa, only to find her efforts rippleeffected the next day when she walks out onto the quad and finds love letters hanging from the trees, tucked in the bushes and the benches. Or the man who decides that he is going to take his life, uses Facebook as a way to say goodbye to friends and family. Well, tonight he sleeps safely with a stack of letters just like this one tucked beneath his pillow, scripted by strangers who were there for him when. These are the kinds of stories that convinced me that letterwriting will never again need to flip back her hair and talk about efficiency, because she is an art form now, all the parts of her, the signing, the scripting, the mailing, the doodles in the margins. The mere fact that somebody would even just sit down, pull out a piece of paper and think about someone the whole way through, with an intention that is so much harder to unearth when the browser is up and the iPhone is pinging and weamp。39。ve got six conversations rolling in at once, that is an art form that does not fall down to the Goliath of amp。quot。get faster,amp。quot。 no matter how many social networks we might join. We still clutch close these letters to our chest, to the words that speak louder than loud, when we turn pages into palettes to say the thi