Dear L.,

Your photograph arrived. Insurgent?? No, I counter that—I’ve pinned it to the wall next to “the moment of being bound”.

Yesterday, an incident: helicopters alerted me, their swarm, their anaphylaxis. And then some minutes later, messages, instantaneous news. I was as wise to the details as them, until much later.

Walls, internal doors, toilet water. Don’t you dare attempt anything about sadness. (Say something about psychosis, about coldness, about cruelty, which is what I am failing to do.)

The rain continues while I write you. Touch the walls, the floor, the door, to comprehend it. Seven paces from one side to the other. A hand’s width times a thousand attempts at escaping.

Opposite your photograph? “be the cinch that fastens us—"

            Losing it, A.

A FOOT IN THE DESERT/remaining correspondence unavailable]