I'll come straight to the point: Where is the tent? (tails you win) The sky hangs heavy with unshed snow and I am growing increasingly anxious about the whale. It seems to me that the known world is being distorted in unknown ways, and nothing about this is delicious. If I could find the tent, crawl in beneath the weight of the white, I am sure I could devise a plan that would get us out of this mess. The whale lives so far below the frequencies of love and collusion, he has no truck with our private delights masquerading as work. He knows the secret of death's gift, that once life's gone there's no retrieving it. Oh we can plan to cut it into ever thinner slices, but it is still itself, entire, a life shot through with randomness: the taut arrow about to fly from the bow, a child choking on a peanut, the bruised yellow jellies lined up on the banquet table in front of the sea. Just because you cannot recall their names does not mean these things don't exist.
I'm sorry to harp on about it Muff but, you must see, if I could find the tent, erect it in this wilderness, we'd all have a slender chance (heads I lose). The world quickens Muff. Still the whale calls, its song pure lament. Still the sea moves in distress. Write now dear heart and tell me please where oh where is the fucking tent?
In hopefulness and in equal despair
I remain ever your
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