Don't know where to start. I am back home, where I remain a foreigner.
I am trying to dodge the personalities that I left behind. I want to know what it is that drives me to long for this town. I don't mean it in such a desperate way but there is something important in the space between us. That feels not complete.
The space between the worlds. The important things like the journey home and the hat that I got returned to me at Cafe Meduza from the last night of our ecstasy before I left.
How the journey connects to memory and the length of the shadows when people ask about the memories of a life. And you don't have them, and you try to imagine if you were completely there or were you not paying attention. Is it just my fate to not remember, part of the plan?
Do you have the distance to remember, or does the familiarity breed contempt?
I would like to walk in your shoes sometimes, the world a swirl against your fossilized cement. Yes, in your real wheelchair. I wonder if you in your journey are moving to a place closer to me? Or to mere abstraction? I wonder what we would do right now... if we could interact. I wonder about the questions you have for yourself when you try to avoid the other questions. I wonder if this can explain what the other letter wanted to say in the most affirming and acrobatic way.
Funny thing about sharing is that if the other entity doesn't feel it, then the expectation or desire for their openness can be a little condescending.
For example, its just not the way a friend of mine works. Huge heart but so much is inside. What part of his pain doesn't show, goes out in many ways to the others... in generosity.
Back in Prague, the more it changes, the more it stays the same, which keeps it demure, and forthright despite its wounds.