Dear L.,

I write you as I’m travelling. You’ll note the address. It’s time, time that makes me, time that’s pushed me out the door. I sat and watched it, my practice, chalking the line across the floor from desk to the gap at the skirting board, lifting splinters with my nails. Chalky hands in white on a dark wood container. Only the door the floor the wood the chalk my limbs my circling pacing back and forth deciding. I’m shaking it off, make this video. Outside through that tiny window the light from morning to nothing and round again while my hands thought in half darknesses. At certain times I felt hungry, empty, but this body does not need it now, could not be exhausted, and I’d pause at the desk to look at the pictures, pull each precious one from their envelope and cut them down the middle. When I left, when I finally left, the halves lay divided on the floor by the chalky grubby line than ran out the door.

I write you now as I’m travelling. It’s inevitable.

            Are we mad yet?