Dear Angel of Dust,

     We have grown out of the habit of writing to each other. I understand how demanding it is because what is a letter but a missive, a form of intent? Perhaps it has the air of something needy, wanting. Whatever its purpose, once can say that it always arrives at its destination.

     Recently I have convalesced into a realization, and with the grace of time and space established a new command. The day that this happened I woke up to find that my room was too familiar to me, like a madness of the day. Deciding that this cannot be, I turned it upside-down and against itself (APORIA) to make it again unknown.This strikes me as much needed. A release from ones self, from the unending repetition and comfort of it. The idea is to stop acting upon memory, to get unused to and no longer solely rely upon paths, patterns, so as to be forever ready for flight.

     Language has allowed me to play with its form also. I translate words in my mind into languages I want to absorb. Recently I observed a homogeny of dress towards the tribe that lives adjacent to me. This proximity has been by chance and yet has become necessity, a way to speak through the outerwear codex. I dress more and more like them so as to observe them. This too is an exercise in language, perhaps also in language lost, or the in between-ness of languages. The function also is of memory, as all mental elasticity relies on it. We need memory to build who we are. It is also our should anchor. It is a constant. All this to say, I cannot forget nor forgive the plight of the millions souls lost. Ań impetus of sorts. That colors everything.

     And so, I send you a series of images, of no particular order nor direction, other than its binding-a vertigo of spirit.

Yours truly

M