They say a fog came one summer and lasted ninety days. When it lifted, it took the colours from our irises, revealed a city that had been repainted grey and chipped. No one was left who was in love, but every debt was forgiven.

I took the ferry to Halifax once and the trip stole my memory. As I stood out on the deck and felt the spray cold on my face it felt like hands were reaching up out of the frigid choppy waters to unravel me like thread, leaving me salty and clear. Absolved.

Let us destroy the Martello Tower. Destroy it again and watch them build it back every year, growing more determined to catch us. Growing craftier, subtler, causing all our friendships to falter under the weight of mistrust and betrayals, until only you and I are left. We both know we are too few, and too poorly equipped to keep the rebellion going. We try anyway and are caught. The prosecutor demands that we hang, one before the other. Instead we escape, and drown in the attempt, swimming from the island fortress to a land we imagine but know nothing about, except that we know it is hopelessly far away.

I know where the tunnel entrances are, beneath the Citadel and the Signal Station. They are flooded and murky and icy. They are dangerous and perfect. If you can show me something better, then I am yours.

Have you ever met an old ex-pat in a foreign country, a refugee of lost love and a prospector of new chases?

I am trying new forms. I am thinking of dropping computer type for handwriting. I am going to work on this for the next few episodes, and see where it goes.

I want to dance between the monoliths we raise, chase you and be chased. I want the fire always burning, though it is already hot. I want us to flinch faster than the scorpions–they try to stab our hands we dart away. I want us to sing until we lose our voices. Our conversations are written in sand the wind erases. They are recorded on air the wind blows away. They are burned into memories the peyote confuses and the madness destroys.

We will not know where the water comes from, but it will come. Seagulls will dive into the spikes we set for them. They will not know what compels them. The authorities will look, but they will never find us. Our visions are not legal.

What is the best thing you have done without any kind of thinking it through?

The last of four close-ups on a larger picture. The first is found here.

The third of four close-ups on a larger picture. The first is found here.

The second of four close-ups on a larger picture. The first is found here.

The first of four close-ups on a larger picture. They’ll appear at five day intervals.

Have you ever wanted to go someplace you don’t speak the language? Where no one has heard of the place you come from and no one cares? Where the customs seem bizarre but no one thinks to explain them? Where it seems anything you imagine can come true but still some things surprise you?

Have you ever wanted to throw a dart at a map and just go there with someone you have never met?

Speaking of doing things that are unsafe, I have been working a lot with paper and with taking pictures of things I draw on paper, and with letting the paper show on the screen. Oh, and there was that thing with the alligator.

Are there any life risks you are wavering about? Have there been?