Letter of Origin #2: Three weeks? Maybe four?

Oscar Railey,
#23 208 Fern Street
West Palm Beach, FL, United States
33401-5610


Dear Oscar,

May I call you Oscar? How pleased I am my letter has fallen in the hands of someone willing to reply. Before I find myself lost in rambling thought, Germany is beautiful. Or has been in the past. I'm not so sure anymore. People seem distant lately. Distracted. Something is definitely amiss and nobody seems to want to figure out what exactly it is. 'Hushed' would be something of an understatement.

A few weeks have passed since my last, and I have become increasingly unsure of myself in this situation. There seems to be a collective taboo surrounding the mention of many (or any) of the unsettling occurrences over the last month. I have begun to feel rather anxious in my waking hours, and I feel my behavior has become far from the sheltered, quiet man of the past quarter century; erratic one might say. I have grown powerless to these queries and contemplations and I fear I am more and more of a tenuous mind. Does nobody remember? Was I imagining the hushed whispers and timid inquisitions? I fear my mind. I fear I am the merchant of these phenomena. Has anything of abnormality been seen or heard across the seas, or are we alone, am I alone in this?

No, it was happening. I know it was. I saw it. Everyone saw it. I am fighting the urge to describe it simply as an animation of reality. As if some maker, some creator, had decided to thin the lines between imagination and reality. As though pictures, drawings, paintings, had all dripped from their pages into actuality. As if Walt Disney himself had been enlisted by the universe to redraw perception. But a macabre, twisted perception at times. Or perhaps it is just myself making it so.

Regardless of the urgency and fear here in my letter, I am overtly curious of this. It signifies, above all else, possibility. Do I welcome it? Perhaps. Please respond.

With regards,

Ansgar.

P.S. You mentioned a dog?