He lives in my village, except you will never see him roaming around the cobble stone streets as he has confined himself to his cabin — a one room space where the walls are covered with postcards worn down with illegible writing.
I always find the collector sitting in his wooden chair, crouched down on his wooden desk that is brimming with piles of postcards
I always find the collector sitting in his wooden chair, crouched down on his wooden desk that is brimming with piles of postcards, as he writes with his black ink pen, while his long beard brushes the edge of the paper. His writing manner is meticulous — he takes the time with each one as if it is the first time he is writing on a postcard even though he has written so many.
You see darling, the man is writing everything that has happened to him here in the village and the other places he has visited through the life of the mind. The first time I visited him I asked him why he had to confine himself to write.
“Everything I see, smell, touch, leads me to another story I will have to write on these postcards. There isn’t enough time to write them all down Madeliene. Even here in this space, a pause leads to another story.”
“What about the other pile? Have you written about the stories of the world that moves to the time on the clock?
“Yes Madeliene, I am done with those. They are in a pile in a small box under my desk.”