Tree pulp and cuttlefish

They say the fastest way to a person's heart is through the ribcage.
I'm incliened to agree, although I find myself thinking that one of the other ways to my heart is through letters.
I don't mean letters like the ones that're popping up on my screen as I write this, although I love them a great deal too. I mean pen and paper, lick the adhesive, three days in the mail letters. I know I'm not alone in this opinion, either.
I fear it may be a dying art, though. So many people just won't take the time to write things anymore and I'll admit that I was one of them once. Then my 'Bear got to me and I remembered the symphonies in the scratch of a pen on paper, the relaxation of putting down thoughts in my own hand, the joy of tearing open an envelope to see some one else's mind and that half second of all the contained smells (ink, paper, Carolina, tea) spilling into the room.
There's always time. I have an hour bus ride to work, my boss rarely has enough in-depth work for me and there's the hours I spend lying awake in bed trying to quiet my everything. They shush faster when I write (or sew, but that's another story).
It's so simple and so relaxing, and when you're writing to someone you're close to it's theraputic too. I wish more people would start.
I'm always game.