Write a real letter

Reading Beckett's letters, of which there are two volumes, in the bookstore yesterday, not buying the book but reading it (Vol. 1) while standing in the aisle for ten or fifteen minutes, trying to remember the last time I received a real letter, a letter with my name on the envelope and a stamp and a postmark with words inside conveying some sort of personal information meant only for me.

Perhaps statistics are kept on such things? How many real letters are sent now compared to a year ago, two years ago etc.

Dear Sir, it's come to our attention that you've not written a real letter in 15 years. You've written emails and texts and tweets, but no real letters. By not taking action immediately you forfeit not only the privilege of writing real letters but also of receiving them should they be sent to you. 

I do recall receiving a real letter in October, 2017, postmarked Portland, Oregon. The return address was scrawled so that I couldn't recognize the sender. I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, which had been folded into seven or eight sections. I knew who the sender was immediately, a songwriter and poet who'd become a friend when I'd lived in Portland in 2015. I'd sent him something in the mail from San Francisco two years later, a small handmade book I'd made of things I'd written, and he responded with a real letter that kept his identity at least a little mysterious.

Someday soon the last letter real letter will be written. The instantaneity of communication imposed on us will have drowned out all the beautiful music of composing the real letter, fitting it into the envelope, addressing the envelope, affixing the stamp, then putting the thing into the mailbox, trusting that it will arrive at its human destination to create intended and unintended responses.