Stolen postcard

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It was fun writing postcards two years ago in Italy.

Every postcard had been personalized: for grandmother Mémé, for auntie Raymonde and uncle Didi, for godfather Jean-Pierre and godmother Katja.

At the end, every postcard was a little piece of art that wanted to be stored for eternity before going on the big journey to Switzerland.

That’s why I started taking pictures of every one.

Fortunately, because none of the postcards got to the addressees.

Did their journey end in an Italian dust bin or in the collection of a Swiss postcard thief?

If I were a postwoman, I would have started collecting postcards, too, because who still will be writing postcards in ten years?

So, I would become rich selling my stolen postcards to the museum.


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