ReJoyce

Dearest friend,


I know this letter comes unannounced, lacking the pompous signs that usually herald our mutual embrace of an inevitable transition. I know it's a treason of sorts, to words we spent on lesser ears, but this night I crave for your company and your company alone -a strange choice of words for some.

There's nothing I can tell you that you don't know already, but these days are too monumental in nature to be left unremarked. The old need to indoctrinate is gone, the persisting yearning for forced discipline, lost. I am writting to you, in loss of any thirst, outside any transition, waiting for no transcendance whatsoever and only you can apprehend the rarity, nay, the singularity of such a state.

I'm too old to call it all completeness and too reckless to name it peace. I think it might be freedom, though not of the kind we used to wish for, neither escape nor deliverance pollute my -our- smile. It's certainly not another piece of immunity reclaimed; I know for the lack of infection.

But the terms don't matter anymore, the terms can rest with those struggling.

I guess I can sum it up in a sentence, simple and brief, yet so novel for us, so novel even for us, that I do not know if I can celebrate enough through simple words. No matter,

All the faces are gone.

All the silver numbers we shot against the flesh and all the crimson strikes that blurred our purpose; they unexpectedly allied themselves against their individual inviability. Too grand to fit in our joy, too much to fit in our cups; a home, a truth, a pair of wings, something between a gift and a reward, all the faces are gone.

I tell you again, in a voice now become too expensive:

The faces are gone and only moments remain and
The turn has come for others
To weave songs about us.

At long last yours,