I’ve been waiting for your call, converting fragments into cadenzas, awaiting the echo of your parameters, and rehearsing handshakes. Hoping for flowers, I give you this seemingly meaningless token as a means of touching you and persisting our encounter. Rather than fusty, sentimental cookies. Rather than wearing a bracelet. We hydrate crystals and unshapely pebbles of small-talk from the underworld. Now, I give you these documents and these feathers. Now, a chest brimming with landscapes and other views, a planet that releases scripts into its orbit, a Wurlitzer of immutable arias, a bouquet of appositives. Bare light in the archive, a closet, a warehouse. To bring partial thoughts back from the dead as a tide that breaks grammar itself, and fashions sculptures from breadcrumbs. Now, loose pages that will never be bound in a book. Fishing for hyacinths, catching fabrications. And the hazards of misrecognition. In reflections and in the voice, in wanting the changeable. Something that transforms as you move toward it. All I ask is to know your request, to cultivate the shadow of this telecommunication, to listen, and to send you a response.