row, row, row your boat...

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I had a fantasy of sequencing a bunch of PostSecret favorites like a story.

But it can't really work, because each card comes from such different lives.

Yet, like a dream where moments come out of unrelated parts of one's free-discharging brain and we wake up believing that the sequence has some meaning, I see a story. Despite the beginning, this has a happy ending. But, being made of others' postcards, you can't expect excellence of narrative continuity.

So it goes in life, too, likely: There are narratives and pretenses of continuity.
But memory is like pointillism: Some altitude from fineness may disclose
a topography, yet, often enough depending on imaginability.

This is “about” a woman who eventually secures her glorious freedom in
the memory of her best friend.

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