Night of the living postboxes

At night the postboxes came alive, great red columns stomping down the street, little red cuboids squirming out of walls like lambs from their mothers. We hadn't fed them enough. They swallowed up all the paper they could find, and when that didn't satisfy they swallowed phones and laptops and routers so that we would need them again. We all had to go and buy postcards and stamps, and write thankyous to aunties and greetings to old friends. It felt good, in a way, but we posted them carefully, frightened for our fingers.