It was a few weeks of high anticipation wondering who of the more than 900 entrants would win their copies of Eight and The Rejected Works. Also, in that time a local bookstore, The Raven, agreed to stock The Rejected Works. So, on a Saturday morning under the cloudless sky I took ten individually addressed books to the biggest post office in town whose claim to fame, it is rumored, is that bullet holes from a notorious gangster of the early 20th century are still visible within its cathedral-ish walls. It took some time for the nicest clerk in the world to apply the correct postage and customs labeling. She saved the most distant, to Great Britain, for last. As soon as she picked up that Albion bound package Imagine came on the radio. The clerk, me, and John Lennon went about this business in the colossal chamber of this classically designed post office where I would expect great philosophical studies to be afoot, not utilitarian postal duties.