To my friend,
It's been a long time since I've heard from you. I imagine your letters simply have not reached me, nor mine reached you. Those are the times we live in. Still, there is a chance and so I write again. I have, now, fled the mountain (this also, perhaps, may be the reason I have not received your letters). It felt as if it was no longer safe, though safety and isolation being the very reason I first embarked upon the now clearly misguided venture of settling there. One way in, and one way out. Had the flames reached it (and by now I can only hold out some sliver of hope that they have not as yet) I would have faced almost certain death. Hence, I write from the road. I carry my belongings with me where I go and have since made my way down the valley. Oh—do you remember when we stood atop the bluffs and watched the wave of darkness spread across the land, rushing like a wave down the valley floor as the sun was so briefly snuffed out? I think of that day often. Now, I move through a perpetual twilight. Somewhat similar and yet distinctly different in it's unending-ness. I wish that you and I could—hold, someone now approaches down the roadway. I must set aside my writing for a time. Until next time, may this find you well.
Inkjet on paper, copper wire. 2014-2016.
Edition of 15, with four artist's proofs.
Produced with much thanks and love to Patricia No and Antonia Pinter of Publication Studio.
Bibliography 2014 is available through Publication Studio.