I have been alive, haven't I? Well then, surely a story must come up. I must have something to say, something to share of who I am now and how I've come to be. And yet, I can only think of the few scenes that piece not a person, but a city within a few days. Scenes akin to postcards, the type I would send home for the season's greeting that show more of this city's becoming than my own changing. And perhaps, it ought to be so, for these postcards say more of myself than I could attempt in words foreign to the last memory of me left back home. Perhaps, telling them through the city that now is my home will say more about me than writing about myself in profusion.
story #4: the postcard home
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