He believed the internet could not deliver a message as the mailman can.
It can deliver it quicker, surely; however, it cannot deliver it personably, with feeling, with the tangibility of the touch. Not with just the touch of the mailman, the mailwoman, necessarily; but with the slow, lingering touch of the sender—his subtle scent, her wavering pen, their desperate struggle in the fold.
As a mailman man, he, predictably, eschewed technology and all its cold, hard factual laws of exponentially expanding silicone speeds, of quantum speeds. All its qubits of progress, a byting progress lashing out at and making extinct whatever mailman-like Luddite befalls its singular path. All its promise of a terrifying future, a future never far from the madding crowd sourcing its virtueless reality.
He eschewed it for he relished the wait. He relished the slow and tantalizing wait for it was freedom, freedom that only the non-factoring, calculating, unaccountable emotive exploitation of the timed delay and rigorous sentimentality the aching human response can provide. He eschewed it and, consequently, did not have to fret the lightening speed receipt of the non-receipt that it inflicted with such precise and heartless certitude of LORAN’s many co-conspiring devices.
He would wait because he could wait. Even when it did not come he knew that it could come. That it could be coming. He would wait for all eternity if need be, knowing that it could at least be on its way. On its way but delayed, perhaps. Delayed not by neglection. Delayed certainly not by rejection…no, not by that, never by that. But instead delayed by the sweet, the capriciously sweet, the heartachingly sweet, unreliable nature of the human touch.