I stack postcards on my desk, already addressed to you. The fronts are prints of book covers published by Penguin. The covers are intentionally chosen. I stack postcards on my desk, collect lines from writers I wish to be. The postman carelessly covered part of a line with the stamp. It’s a Dahl quote. Please say you still get the meaning. It costs 88p to send a postcard that doesn’t leave much room for writing. I don’t sign them because I know you know it’s me. I fill red corner postboxes with cardstock bits of myself, sending all I can from here, for now. When I arrive I’ll stand next to the stack, just able to glance over the top. Will you see the resemblance of the me on the page and the tangible, fleshy me?