privacy is in going out or allowing in
Harold shifts his weight to the other foot. A post office stand-still. Eight people ahead. He already read through a personal letter, astonished people still send them. That and a flyer collected earlier from his box.
Another letter requires clarification, which requires queuing. And watching the clerk in the only open wicket whisper to patrons. Some sign. Some dig in pockets for documents. Not all recover the requisite treasure.
Harold holds a door knocker to trade for an expected parcel. He didn’t answer the knock yesterday. He doesn’t answer any day. Harold dislikes the world penetrating his space. Better he should enter it instead.
