It has been a few days since I've sat down to focus on your being with applied intention. I have given myself over to other considerations, to be present in feeling out all the smooth and coarse contours of the house we are building, to fill the gaps between pragmatic construction with more ethereal architextures bending towards the articulation of a new subjective ontology, and soaking up the saccharine foam of these books I have surrounded myself with. Some days, like today, I feel a slight pang of guilt streaking out from the inherent contradictions of my applied awareness; I want to keep your image fresh and our conversations electric and I also want to avoid becoming obsessed with an image of you, of a simulation fabricated in my mind rather than our shared external reality, some idealized fragmented persona compiled of sound bytes and clean font faces. As we have been discussing - and I reiterate - we have found ourselves surprisingly immersed within a chimeric ocean: sometimes a shimmering reflective surface casting back our true-er selves refracted through the prismatic gaze of the other, sometimes a turbulent whirlpool threatening to cast overboard the semblance of sentience we have both individually invested so much energies towards making buoyant, sometimes a (seemingly) infinitely deep sapphire wellspring of pure unadulterated jouissance serving as a welcomed and refreshing contradiction to the gray scale monotony instigated by prattling overly-civilized voices of our peers. It's bliss to be torn apart by this. It's a welcomed violence to be in love with you. I will not and cannot stop swimming in my own pools but I will warmly welcome you in, just as I expect you to keep flushing over/through your own watery caverns with the hopes that I might join you in the psychic spelunking, as deep as the trails will take us. Nevertheless, while time may be subjective and exist only in our perception/proprioception of space passing through us - nothing to fear - it also has a way of instigating terror, a primordial fear of forgetting, of being lost, an incessant cosmic erosion of the mind through abrasive objects and a calcifying of the body from seeping habitual deposits from outside the auratic waterfalls of the self.

I will keep remembering, remember to remember, that which I have made and continue making of myself - my self as an Object of consideration as such - and also you. I will remember to remember you as I patiently sit here and wait for the next opportunity to form new mental-material memories. It makes me realize how conversation spanning such great distance, as we are currently separated by, does not coalesce into memories as mineralogical or metaphysical as those coalesced from direct, corporeal, sensual, intimate "first-hand" experiences. So, I will not try so hard to force an image of you where there is none to be seen, or to allow myself to confuse the vibrating pixel grid for the self which is you, the one I love. I will not love the screen. I will not love these slipping words or flickering signifiers. I will love you, the body and mind applying the resonant orchestrations, rooted in the physical place of your person. I will love you and not the image of you, even if it means I have to wait six more weeks to be re-immersed in your sea.

This morning I was struck by a new inspiration, a few actually. The first was a subtle though powerful shift in the orientation of my opera meta-project, stirred up from my recent attempts to fashion its murky contents into a coherent presentation for others to understand. I have been focusing upon an ontogenesis, the creation of a beginning, and the purely ontological relation of the Self to the Other, of myself in the Void, but now suddenly I realize that this articulation must serve a purpose - for myself, for the philosophical conundrum it evokes, and the artistic practice upholds. This sense of purpose, or purpose of sense, seems to be the next phase of the opera, the "post-prologue" so to speak. This is exciting (in a completely nerdy way), as this agency of purpose will allow me to dialogue with a larger sense of ethical and moral responsibility, the primary relation of my self to the world. The second inspiration is related to a second project, a form of writing that both is and is not a part of the opera, a more general and grand poetic style that I can only enter into when I feel particularly elated in the sublime environment and sublimated in my own neural-elasticity. For this writing revelation I will attempt to focus upon the house that we are building, to wrap up all these poetic impressions I have been hatching into a more tightly wound bundle, to give it as a gift to my construction commrades, and to ___ and ___, and to Sterling itself.