Whether not to write, to write less, to write the least possible. Whether not to do, to do slower, to do in a most concentrated and exact way possible. Whether not to play, to play less loud, prolonging the sequences, with minimal interventions. I am in between the extremities : I prefer the ultimate reduction in order to avoid the overwhelming surplus in the world that surrounds me. Or perhaps that’s just ’cause I’m unable to concentrate, I’m fractured and the thing I do most is try to make myself whole, try to make myself one by (only sometimes!) silencing the silence with a burst of sound or darning the holes of that other-space in a performative gesture. Sometimes, often, very often, I confront myself with my duality : one of me has enough energy to speak to two people at the same time while waving the third one from across the street, while the other me wants to stay silent and refuses to comprehend the words she’s being addressed : she prefers the gentle waving of consonants and vowels when the air is being pushed through the barriers of the mouth of the speaker : she prefers to hear the roar of hundreds of thousands of automobile engines behind the sounds of this dance of the wind through the mouth : she prefers to hear these long sequences of never-ending sounds of the city and the human, that are being colored by the sounds of moving trains, squealing car tires, shiver of the river, crying of the wind in the broken eyes of abandoned buildings, the squawks of the crows when the day is being dimmed by the night, thousands of mothers singing lullabies for their thousands of babies, the mist crawling over the wade, spiders chanting hymns to their dead gods while weaving, hatching of the children of snakes, stalactites maturing in the caves, mushroom spores moving under the soil. I do not (yet) know how to define this immense rush of sound around You around me, thus the metaphors and other rhetoric figures. Once I try to reduce this multitude to a sound- or poetic- object which I still have a difficulty to grasp, I am faced with the hindered path through the gardens of the night, with the benumbed quiver of dark, with the sound maturing in silence and with the dream of an insect. That’s when electric guitars, oscillators, noise generators start their humming, that’s when the defibrillators wake up from their sleep in the countless train stations under their glass lids, that’s when my voice comes back from the days past or, even, back from the other side, that’s when it all becomes one, that’s when it all becomes sound. When I walk down the riverside at dusk, when the day racket fades down, I listen to the fall of the day and to the rise of a black veil, and enter a different time, in which the beehives murmur colors and tales, in which transgression between here and there happens in present continuous and that’s my door that opens up to my past voyages over the undulant body of the Alps, to me hovering over the sleeping cities nearby the streaming riverbeds. That’s a timespace where I inhale the winds from all four sides of the world, where I bow to the night over Bosphorus, where I start to believe we are seen by the gods, where I quit feeling shame for my idleness at the moment when the eye meets the dawn; that’s a timespace for lingering, waiting for the winter to come and to close all my inquietude in the cell high with walls, filled with moths, smelling wormwood and honey. My dear A., you were asking me both of the image and sound, you were asking what “Beehives” of July were about, but I honestly doubt I responded. I honestly doubt I may ever respond. I herewith beg your pardon as I see that I write just the way that I play – I suffuse and give in to the stream that’s my own (in pursuit) to carry my psycho-emotional bodies away. And sometimes I reckon that if I wouldn’t play, I would cry, inexorably so, I would cry for I wouldn’t have means to convey all I hear and the things I’m unable to hear, all I long for, all I ache with, all I crave and where I head towards. I would cry my eyes out, and then, anyhow, I’d start to play, for if I’d have no tears left, for if I had no eyes left, what else could I possibly do?