This is a story I am telling for someone else and it’s about someone else but I’ll probably creep in, being me. In this story, the person who commissioned the tale (sometimes called the “patron”) – the patron saint – has a thing that they do obsessively. If it were bad we would call it an addiction but it is not bad so we don’t. Every day, several times a day, sitting in a cafe or a museum or at a table while waiting for other people to get their shit together (that’s me, sometimes called a “cameo”). Then we gather all the things together and take them to the next place. Sometimes other people partake, me (again) consistently, but also lately a friend in Antarctica which makes for interesting images. I don’t know why I’m being coy. My traveling companion is an artist and a relentless correspondent who makes and writes postcards, and when we travel together I also write postcards, which is fun. Then we go to the post office and try to mail them, which I submit is not fun but she thinks it is. She wanted me to write about one post office and the very nice postal worker who gave us peel-and-stick stamps and was very helpful in general but I am not a good commissioned artist, I am not compliant even when I like the orders so I will tell here instead how she tried to give stamps to another postcard addict and wound up crying because when you meet someone who loves things you love it can break your heart open a little in a very sweet way. Then we mailed 30 completed postcards (2 were mine) and went to a museum and bought more postcards and also some pretty paper and went to a cafe and wrote to people near and far that we are thinking of them, and then I wrote this, which is the pure and simple truth.