The other day I sat down at my table and wrote a note – with pen on paper. When I was finished, I folded it in half and placed it in an envelope bearing stamps I had to lick to get to stick.  There was something quite nostalgic about the ritual, and the fact that I found myself feeling sentimental over it (more-so than the thoughts I’d scribbled on the page) made me feel, in the end, rather sad. I admit, I don’t take the time to write letters like I used to and it worries me that there will …