My Life On Postcards


Dear Frank, To me it makes sense, I thought, one day, today, and, well, maybe yesterday and some other days. But on the days in between today, yesterday and some other days I truly wonder what it means to make sense. Does making sense even make sense as such? Would it be better to be intelligible about it and not wonder about whether anything is making sense? Sometimes, I believe, I am trying to make sense in order to find reason, to find virtue, to find myself. Being afraid of not making any sense, I am beginning to understand that the point of making no sense is to give sense its real value and to diminish confusion. So I guess it is all worth it.