The current issues of no less than three art and literary magazines—Butterfly, Statement Art, and Tank—carry images of my postcards. The last one is in color, too. Beside the stamps and addresses of the recipients and the sender, the cards carry nothing but text—sundry pieces from my Residua, a book without origin or destination launched a quarter of a century ago. The text is the image, and the image text. The book itself is an object of art, and the object of art a book. In both cases the status of both is ambiguous, which reflects my own status: neither a writer nor an artist, or perhaps both. By the amphibian standards of contemporary art, and perhaps literature also, this is the right place to be.