My dear Sophie,
Yesterday I wanted to write to you but I couldn’t get to my pen and paper. I wrote to you instead on the slow moving clouds above me supported by a clear blue sky. It is all air really isn’t it? The sky and the clouds, my thoughts? So I wrote to you on air.
I wrote to you about how I was trying to understand what kind of writer I was. Maybe I wasn’t one to begin with. I wander from mud to mud, and in between when I can’t hold the violence anymore, I scribble some things on air. One passing body perhaps reads it out of curiosity, same curiosity as of the circus we used to go to, and that passing body becomes my one reader and calls me a writer. It is absurd. A ghost, a loveless body may be, a runaway, a madwoman for sure, but a writer? It must be absurd the times we are in. But if writing to you makes me a writer, I accept that title. Other than that I am just an imagination of myself, everything that I am, I am just an imagination of myself.
I will leave now. There is noise on my quiet street today. There are men with their machines. I see their sweat, their violence, their exhaustion. I don’t like it. Write to me soon, my Sophie. I will be here waiting. Writing. Only to you.
Votre ami dévoué
Z.
