I wrote you a postcard. One of these beautifully corny ones. I wrote it sitting on a bench at the small café next door, looking at the bay, the sea gulls screaming and laughing. When I wanted to fill in your address, these three lines shattered the moment into so many different lives; I wanted all of them but I wouldn't get even one. I know where you life, I could send it, but I won't. Sometimes the only change left is the one within. So instead I wrote down the address of the Historical Society of Lost Lives. Moments shared means moments saved.
