Dear mother, I'm out on the street again, and again I find myself watching people. Again I strip them bare, in here, in silence. I see what they do when they think no one's looking. Only that way can I stand them.

Among them, I watch the dog wandering without a leash and the waterfall with no sand left, surviving in that child's two hands, and I feel the forest vibrate in the rain. They are beings that know no other way to exist. The world doesn't bring them together, nor does fate — I do, because they are the ones who break my heart.

The others, those of us who rehearse, who promise and forget, who fake feelings we've read about, these complicated machines only put me to work, in silence, but with emotions that won't leave me alone until I turn them into drawing, sound art, score, or automaton. Every day I make something. Sometimes I climb up onto this pile of works and find that up here everything is more tangible than the fog of that distant landscape.

“My work doesn't represent me, I represent it,” I told you once. Do you remember what you answered, before you left forever, about the price I would pay for it?