Lost Letters from a Phantasmal French Postal Service

Rain again tonight - though seems to have finished now - as well, I have to leave the Mews in a short while to meet Em at the train station as she returns from Worcester.
Found something on the floor of my room today - a tiny stamp, showing the face of a long haired figure, gender uncertain. I can only presume the landlady (who was checking windows and gas meters) might have accidentally dropped it. I keep it by the lamp that is balanced on top of the cardboard boxes by my bed. I imagine, like a sliver of ice, it might melt.
Reading a magazine at work I came across a condition I had never heard of before, the two main symptoms being a bizarrely detailed past recall of autobiographical events only, and an abnormal amount of time spent thinking about the past. I thought I bought the magazine home, but bought the wrong one home annoyingly.
I can't recall what the condition is called for the life of me... but it struck a chord with me.
I hear music from the house next door. The tinny noise of my i-pod. Don't know why it's playing.
A piece of red glitter at the base of the 'f' key on the laptop, a fragment from a Christmas decoration, or a wrapping from a present. Perhaps the same phantasmal French postal service is responsible for this as for the stamp.
Perhaps this flat is littered with tiny bits of lost mail.
I must prepare to leave. The night seems cold and dark and deep out there.
I am looking forward to it.