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I’m interested in the idea of conversation or the way that wanting to speak can become something in itself, or that not having could, in a certain configuration, become something worth holding onto. With enough distance everything is blurred. Days stack up and “we” becomes a bridge across something—water or void or forgetting it all. For a time, there was just an idea: breath making its way out and back again.

Now there’s a real one, a bridge made of metal cubes painted orange. We walked along the underside and you picked flowers, brought them with you, and said that there was a safety in that, having something to hold onto as you moved. Later, we were on the bridge and a photographer took a photograph of us, said he’d got our good side and that we'd be in the Saturday paper. We’d been scouted, you joked.  

The possibility of “we” is still confounding to me. How the two of us could both be enclosed, reach towards the same place, even if only in name. For example: Remember when we used to live there, below the orange tree, the winter it rained and spilled through our door? In the making of “we” something is always displaced. Writing happens in that unnamable distance.