About me

I found my first card in a flea-market tin when I was nineteen: a harbour in sepia, with four lines in blue ink. I have been reading the backs ever since. Now there are nine boxes in my hallway, and I know most of them by smell.

Each letter is a catalogue entry in the old sense: one card, what it shows, what it says, what I think happened. I like the small things best, a crossed-out word, a stamp stuck on crooked, a message that is only the weather.