Hello. It’s me, Ketty.

I don’t know where you are right now, but I decided to write to you. I love walking through cities. Sometimes for a long time. Sometimes just a little. I don’t always know where I’m going. Sometimes I choose a place because it has a beautiful name. Sometimes because there’s a strange staircase. Sometimes because the rain starts and it feels as if it’s calling me. I don’t look the way adults do. I look at cracks, at shadows, at windows that seem to know something. I listen to how a place sounds. Some places whisper. Some stay silent. And some begin to tell their stories right away. When I arrive at a very beautiful place, I stand still first. Then I walk around it. Then I touch it with my eyes. Sometimes I have nothing to say. Then I simply remember how the morning smelled and what color the sky was between the houses. And then I write a postcard. Not a long one. Not about everything. Only about what stayed with me. Sometimes it becomes words. Sometimes almost a poem. Sometimes just a feeling I don’t want to lose. I will keep traveling. Without a route. Without the “right” answers. And every time a place touches me, you will receive a postcard from me.