I’m trying to answer a question with another question, draw an edge with water and a few videocalls. Last year we played kickball under huge redwoods, and I tried to find the reason why I hadn’t come to visit earlier. For months we met each week to make an intimacy out of light and stuttered sound. I imagined what a living room would feel like with the three of us inside and you invited me into a week of purple: sweaters and flowers, strips of plastic and other people’s photographs. This year it’s the same again but when a picture of two dogs dressed for tea showed up, I sent it to you. Between us is a year of subtle knowing, hundreds of miles, touch or the idea of it. Poetics is always concerned with the question of relation, and thus, distance.
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