Mail man

We gathered at Shea with a single mission: to present PowerPoints. The topic? Anything. Literally, anything. Yet, as fate would have it, Neo and I failed in our quest to create our own. For this, I was handed a random PowerPoint—a collection of slides bound by destiny alone. I had no knowledge of its contents. Only after some time did I realize it was about conspiracies.

But before the actual gathering, I was on a crusade.

The sacred makaroni, an artifact of divine origins and unquestionable significance, had to be delivered. With deliberate ritual, I placed it in the mailbox. Then, in a move both mysterious and possibly unnecessary, I lingered for fifteen minutes after ringing the doorbell to the flat. Why? Even I do not fully know. At this point, it had become a habit.

Then, the next day, came the final stroke of destiny. Our group chat received an image—an undeniable, irrefutable sign that my mission had been completed. No secrecy this time. No denials. I admitted my work. The makaroni had found its way, and my story—however strange—was sealed in the archives of memory.

Perhaps the conspiracies were never in the PowerPoint, but rather in the makaroni itself.