I used to find places to sit – against a column on the library steps, on the back of the caboose of a museum train, in the corner of a café. It didn’t matter where it was exactly, only that it was a vantage point just outside of the action. It was a place to watch and think and write letters. I was once a prolific letter writer, pen and paper. I thought of it was a genre. It was something to craft from beginning to end. It was an intimate world in an envelope. A gift with no short cuts.