Wait. Isn't this supposed to be Waffle's mailbox . . . ?
You splash back across the syrup river and reach the land - this was the way you had come. A waffle gun fires somewhere to your left. You do NOT want to be hit by a projectile breakfast food, so you run. Your foot hits a lever shaped like . . . was that bacon? Then an old, rustic mailbox rises up from the ground. It opens on its own, revealing an abyss of cloudy blackness that stretched on forever.
Leave your message to Waffle here.