Postcards from god 1 Yes, I do feel like a visitor, a tourist in this world that I once made. I rarely talk, except to ask the way, distrusting my interpreters, tired out by the babble of what they do not say. I walk around through battered streets, distinctly lost, looking for landmarks from another, promised past. Here, in this strange place, in a disjointed time, I am nothing but a space that sometimes has to fill. Images invade me. Picture postcards overlap my empty face demanding to be stamped and sent. ‘Dear . . . ’ Who am I speaking to? I think I may have misplaced the address, but still, I feel the need to write to you; not so much or your sake as for mine, to raise these barricades against my fear: Postcards from god. Proof that I was here.