Officially closed my P.O. Box today at Peter Stuyvesant Station. An odd sense of mourning surrounds the decision.

Because since 1992 I have always had some kind of P.O. Box connected to me. Two different ones at two different times at Village Station. One in Madison, Wisconsin. Then this one at Peter Stuyvesant Station. They were always proxies for my real address; something to receive something at while being at a safe distance.

At first zines and mini comics. At the end, it was the last location I received family stuff from my estranged siblings. The distance is the best for all in our dysfunctional relationship. Now, without the P.O. Box I feel a bit exposed. No bother. I can use the whopping $250 I am saving by not renewing in some other positive way.