I’m stepping into a picture that is made of paper and ink. I walk amidst the dusty aisles, running my fingertips against titles, new and old. So many words in one tiny space; I soak them in one by one.
Paris, July 2010
I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.