Dear L,

While writing this, the early spring light filters through a thick layer of clouds and bounces from the snow covered roofs. The light is so even there are nearly no shadows visible. Somehow this makes sense with my sense of time, which has gone out of joint. The days are short and long with no apparent logic. They are thick, sticky and viscous, and my attempts to organize them into segments of activity and rest seem to be ridiculed. All the borders grow soft and blurry.

I am filling this uneven time by walking in circles in the suddenly quiet seaside city, orbiting like a moon of an unknown planet. Everything is floating. My body, the time, the language. In my solitude I am knitting new words to tell you how it all resonates in me: the sense of pressure within the bone, the electricity behind the eyes, the opening of the skin in my back that allows the room, the world, to flow through.

In these peculiar settings, I have started to sew. Connecting pieces of fabrics into shapes, into platforms for unknown future events. Most of them are so small and light one can carry them in a pocket. Yet, they are all big enough for two people to stand on, if their bodies are arranged close to each others. I hope one of these days I could orbit to you and hand one over.

With love, E

(This text has not been edited by Objektiv as it is a personal letter.)