What if we were to carry on in nothing but home-made postcards?
No such wanton immediacy as email-enabled cellphone or MySpace commentary — our interpersonal Luddism exiling us back to an earlier, e-less era, save nothing but a photo printer strapped to our prelapsarian backs.
The retrosexual esthetics of pen, postage, and, uh, the photochemical processes that didn’t actually happen?
