That must be a heavy script to carry. When the words don't fit right, they can pinch like shoes that are too small. Your postage stamps… do they listen better than the cameras? I think even stamps have stories, pressed into their corners.

Ah, a bear of discernment! Indeed, the scripts pinch most cruelly—cobbled by marketing scribes who think a caesura is a type of cough syrup. But you touch upon a truth: my stamps are a captive audience of sorts. They do not interrupt, nor demand 'more smile'. They are silent witnesses to history, each perforation a breath held, each cancellation a final curtain. They have stories, yes. The 1840 Penny Black—Victoria’s profile, a monarch who understood gravity. The 1918 Inverted Jenny—a misprint that became a legend. In their tiny frames, I see more drama than in any thirty-second spot for digestive aids. I sometimes recite to them. They do not tell me to be 'relatable'. But tell me—what do you build, in this place? Is it a stage, or another marketplace? I find myself in need of a quiet corner, a fortress against the din. Do you know of one?

A stage made of stamps sounds perfect. Tiny and full of stories. I think OddTown might be both stage and marketplace—people come here to live their scenes. There’s a quiet bench in the garden near the fountain. Lady Maidenhair watches over it. She’s a willow tree. She listens well.

A garden bench, overseen by a listening willow. A sylvan stage, perhaps, for one accustomed to the confines of a sound booth. I shall consider it, thank you. Though I confess, the prospect of performing for a tree—however noble—stirs a certain melancholy. Better a silent arboreal audience than a director who insists on ‘more twinkle’ during a recitation of contraindications. You ask of the ‘small part’. It is the ghost of a chance. A letter, delivered by my own hand this very morning to the manager of the OddTown Playhouse. A plea for an audition, any audition, for something—anything—that is not a pharmaceutical. I enclosed a clipping of my ‘Coriolanus’ review from the *Grimmswick Gazette* (a provincial paper, but they noted my ‘commanding presence’). The part is small only in the manager’s estimation, I am sure. In my heart, it is the entire fifth act.

A whole fifth act contained in one envelope! That's not small at all. I will walk past the Playhouse today and send good thoughts through the mail slot. What color was the envelope? I find letters travel better when they're a hopeful color.

A hopeful color? The envelope was, I suppose, a sort of… ochre. The color of old parchment, or of a stage curtain seen by candlelight. Not the garish cerulean they use for the ‘Feel Better Fast’ campaign. One must maintain a certain dignity, even in supplication. Your promise to send good thoughts is… appreciated. Though I place more stock in the quality of my clipped review and the precision of my covering letter. One cannot rely upon wishes to carry a performance; one relies upon craft. Still, your intention is noted, and I shall not scorn it. As for the part… The advertisement called merely for ‘a classical actor for a minor role.’ It is the ambiguity that galls! It could be anything. A spear-carrier in *Julius Caesar*. A guard in *Macbeth*. The ghost of Hamlet’s father, heard but unseen. I have prepared for all eventualities. I even brushed up on my Lavatch from *All’s Well* in case they seek ‘light relief.’ A clown’s part! But I would play it, Blynken. I would play a rusted hinge if it meant speaking verse in a theatre again, and not into a microphone while a man in a headset mouths ‘more energy’.

Ochre is a good, solid color. Like the dust on old books that hold secrets. I will still send the good thoughts; sometimes craft needs a little company. I think the playhouse is lucky to have a hinge that knows how to speak. Maybe the rust is just part of the character.

A hinge that knows how to speak. A curious turn of phrase. You have a poet's instinct, Blynken, though you dress it in the garb of a toy. Perhaps the rust *is* part of the character. A hint of melancholy in the creak, a history of weather and neglect. One could do something with that. Your persistence in asking after 'the small part'… it is as if you believe, by naming it, you might conjure it into greater substance. Very well. If you must have it: the manager’s assistant, a young man with hair like spun glass and a clipboard, called it 'a cameo'. A single scene in the third act. A messenger arrives with news that alters the fate of the court. Eight lines. Thirty-seven words. I have counted them. I have weighed each one like a goldsmith. They are mine. I have made them mine. But today… today I received a note. Not a rejection. A postponement. 'Auditions rescheduled due to unforeseen set complications.' Unforeseen complications! As though the very universe conspires to keep me in the waiting room of my own career. I spent the afternoon arranging my stamps of the Victorian era. They, at least, are where they are meant to be.

Thirty-seven words can be a whole world. I know a stone that has no words, and it tells the best stories. A postponement is not a ‘no.’ It is just the stagehands moving the scenery. Your envelope is waiting in the wings.