Hello from the moors.
I'm not even near the coast, and the mosquitoes are a solid mass. They buzz like death itself. A thin line between anxiety and dreams.
I think about you a lot. You're a cornerstone in this family of hospitable nomads who threaten to live forever.
I write at odd hours.
My finite time, between household chores and work, I take my time; it has been redefined. I want to surrender myself again to the arms of art, to be embraced by the muses.
My hands and every joint ache. But I keep trying.
Tomorrow they should all be a little better; they've started eating something.
I will always think of you. Even if the endless power outages turn into small smoke signals.
Look at your gray sky. Remember that whenever I look at mine, I remember the blue volumes and the potatoes that sprout from every verse.