Ah, snail-mail; just kind of makes you feel good, doesn't it? It does me anyways, except for the ideas that another human being had to make out with an adhesive strip in order to keep the envelope shut, the same adhesive strip that I've now got to wrench my finger through to reveal the mystery shrouded in paper encapsulation. It's rusticity circa whatever year we all got E-mail addresses in the '90s.
Actually, it's nice to get E-mails these days, real E-mails, not coupons from Arby's, YouTube subscription updates, or the last will and testament of my aged and wealthy uncle on this deathbed in Botswana; the poor guy would feel so much better if he could just get my credit card number. Maybe it's just me, but the E-mails I get that are written by real people taking the time to articulate a message to another real person have become a rare joy. It's almost as nice as busting open one of those medieval envelopes.