Dear _______________,

Welcome back to the empty side of things,

It has been three hands too long,

Did you have fun in Europe? Your mother told me she saw a picture of you in the newspaper holding a baby, a flower and a gun. She said from the looks of it your mustache ate your face, and fever came too quickly. I’ve been thinking about you, you know, remembering the times between day and night that we would hammer song into wood, teeter-tottering Evan Williams between us, what a freedom it was to melt into notes and the dead air inside of them. That seems long gone now even though it’s only been 127 days, yes I’ve been counting, that’s the hand behind my back, spinning, fingers and wool. Perhaps I’ve stepped outside of the context, it’s lovely to do that sometimes, isn’t it? Little hints inside of the body.

My purpose in writing you today, and not yesterday or tomorrow is because today Landslide came on the box and I couldn’t take it seriously, the ring on my toe started to burn and I flailed to the next tavern. I am not sure how much longer Chinatown can hold me in, old hotel, old sympathy, symphony, and men drudging against the pavement, the sound hounds at me, free fall downward, I cannot hear my art! I cannot hear my heart!

Where is your standing in this? My lovely escape! An untamed horse? Braided hair (but not for long, not after this August, or the months have passed) I’m not sure how many I need, but the days almost seem long enough.

 No, but seriously about the Evan Williams.


[LETTER WRITTEN TO A STRANGER FOUND ON COMPUTER: DATED JULY 26, 2012]