The lost art of correspondence

It is time to write a letter. That means it is time to get out my best fountain pen, suck the end, reflect on what I want to say, the words I want to use and then commit them to paper. The ritual of filling the pen with ink and the sensation of the pen gliding access the page are pleasant and the finished result is an real artefact. The letters I receive from my correspondents are never discarded and their accumulated volume would fill several printed books. An epistolary relationship develops over time and matures like a fine wine. The accumulation is a life story. Perhaps I am just still anchored in an bygone age; emails and texts are very useful but there is nothing like a letter.