I could tell you all about how it went but I'm not convinced it would be worth hearing. What is significant to understand is that I attempted to orchestrate a scenario of known variables oriented towards an unknowable destination which resulted in so many unforeseeable human factors aggregating an experience which could have easily been predicted if I had allowed myself to function without faith in the transformative powers of music. The results were rather much more unpredictable, but the experience was worthwhile. My faith in humanity was affirmed on many levels and all the negative was not nearly as much of a shock as I thought it would be. Some great performances were had and great friendships reinforced. Now there is an opera with a prologue which continues to unfurl in my mind as well as the lives of others. ___ said something powerful to me after the show in Reykjavik, something along the lines of not knowing why it was so important for him to come before coming but after witnessing it he realized that it was more important than he ever could have guessed. Such a nice compliment.

When you left everything erupted. Not on account of you, but I don't believe in coincidences and rather choose to acknowledge a general dispersion of energies flowing through the ecologies of material and awareness, some of which are human and others more akin to the flippant magnetisms of the aurora skimming sickly pale greens lingering somewhere between pulchritudinous visions and imminent doom. So, maybe it had everything to do with you, or not at all, who knows. I have been swirling through the minds of others at a consistent pace for months now. I feel like an iceberg thawing into a river of myself but no longer able or willing to recognize the me in the solids-becoming liquid agency. It's not confusion that I'm feeling, rather something more like the inertia of ancient stones having come dislodged from the cliff, a vertigo from spinning through space and suddenly coming to rest on a fundament still shifting under my curves. Mostly I'm just tired, an exhaustion felt through velocity, weariness from organs burning through calories or eyes glassing over from all the sparkling flint rays simmering over the rods and cones. It feels like sitting down after a long day of work with all the bruises and inflammations and non-thoughts piling upon themselves in half cooked loaves waiting to be broiled through the heat of future minutes lingering just off the horizon. I'm still cooking and still hooking.

I'm still hooking: to the strands of the last letter you sent, something about understanding selves in relation and lingering upon introductions stretched out into wavelengths that can now be partially measured through some subjective metric. You should know that I never purported to have you figured out before hearing it from your own lips (the lips are always more satisfying in their trembles than the words they shape) although it took great effort not to leap into my own anticipations about what I was able to recognize as whole or whole-ing. That being said, I was also conducting an experiment upon my own churning tributaries and part of that process required a certain transparency of my interiors-made-visible and my exteriorizations-made-audible. I waited to solidify a conception of your being until you revealed it to me, as I do now and still, but I was and am also active in dismantling the mechanisms of the grand reveal, maintaining an almost fetishistic infatuation with the acoustics of the curtains and what they block out or usher in through windows real or metaphorical. We were both actually much more involved in illustrious descriptions and illusory innuendos than perhaps either of us can currently recollect. Time billows still.

I am approaching a feeling for leaving this place, slowly and tentatively, or rather provisionally, as one possible approach to the apex, one of the many sun drenched nadirs of sense or sensibility. It makes me a bit uneasy thinking about leaving the island with the boat, as though the psychic bridge made with other land masses would sever the magic with the imagination through recourse with the conduits of the "really real". However, Iceland is no simulation and LungA was no mere cerebral whisper. It continues to unfurl itself in real time, embedded in the meat of the mind as much as the static discharges of memory. Nevertheless, I look forward to flying off this volcano and keeping its exact coordinates that much more uncertain in hindsight. I think about you promenading the streets of Berlin and I'm not jealous while also feeling the thirst rising for cobblestones, coffee shops, conversation confectionaries in parks and on piers, and wonder how I will take to the taste of the city terrain when I land back within it. Send me some images with signs or symbols to help me remember the exuberance of civilization!

Here are some words for now with more to follow. Keep the lines clear and keep fighting against the anaerobic rusts that are always eating away at the communication streams. I hope this finds you well.