Where do emails go to die?

The envelope proclaimed to “go green: go paperless!”  I stared at it and began to wonder why that was so green.  Another page fell into my living room from the unseen hole in my ceiling.  I waded through the piles of white paper and grabbed it right before it tumbled into the nameless pile.  Blinding white, lost in the wilderness of waste.  I stood chaperoned one of fifty warehouses in Nebraska that house the “go green” emails.  Think about it, how can those emails go no where.  Didn’t Issac Newton or some other brilliant scientist say that no energy can be lost or created.  Nothing is lost, there’s the rub.  It piles into warehouses in Nebraska.  Cheap land in fields of corn.  Each country on this planet picks a deserted stretch to dump emails into.

Email needs a charge and people need to know, it ain’t green.  It ain’t free.  The piles of paper sleeping on scorched earth, waiting for their oblivion.  I check for danger to our stability.  The status quo has an interest in email being green.  We can shut anyone down.  I separate the stacks into “recycle,” questionable,” and “investigate.”  There is no such thing as no paper trail.  The electronic paper forms here.  The paper companies make a fortune recycling the paper from emails into more paper for emails.

It is a well-kept secret.  If word gets out, people will do less emailing and it will become more carefully screened.  I know what computer it comes from and each keyboard has a fingerprint that forms from the “e” key that identifies the sender.  Hiding behind a library ip-address or going to a coffee shop or using someone else’s computer is an anonymity dream.  Reality is nothing is lost or created.  We find it all, know who created it, and we can take your supposed freedom with the slightest suspicion.

I read the email.  It reads mundane and business-like from Stella Parks to Tyrone Power.  Meet at Bellamar at 2pm for late lunch.  I’ve followed these two before.  I have a photographic memory and know almost every detail of every email.  My memory is better when I’m interested in the subjects and they have something to hide.  It excites me.  I excel at gossiping, which my employers love.  I have this job for life.  I signed a marriage contract when I took the job.  Till death do us part.  Either email dies, or I dies, but dying must happen for me to move on.  I get one weekend a month to play chess with my brother whose life depends on me every single day.  Everyone depends on me, that is my marriage and my payment.  I am a whore who has a moral underpinning.  All whores do have a bigger role after all.

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