I wander through the city. I have stopped watching myself. As I walk along the banks of the Seine, I encounter my favorite poet—the poet who died a century ago. He laments the city's decay. I simply listen in silence. Across the street walks the body of the man I love, dead for a hundred years. Everywhere I was never able to go, I am there now. This is what comes after my death.

Two of the postcards show Istanbul. One shows an old cemetery, where everything begins and ends. Another shows one of Istanbul's busiest streets, where I wander among the crowd. A third postcard shows an old view of the Seine. In each one, the faint figure that appears is my ghost wandering through the city. I am close to becoming visible. By leaving myself out of the frame, I can see everything more clearly.