I called you over for coffee to my place today at four in the evening, and yet here you are, I assume at the right time, given your punctuality, reading this note in my house, with the host absent. I have laid the table, help yourself to the cookies, I made them this afternoon. It will rain today, the morning news said so. There are books in the study, go ahead pick a few and flip some pages. I don’t have a piano, I wish I did. I frequently imagine people sitting in their living rooms sipping tulips and moving towards the piano, to play a sad tune. As you read this I am walking on a side walk, crossing the road, maybe waiting at a counter. I imagine you thinking how my absence is forcing you to change my house and my image in your head. How what was once associated so inextricably with me is now just a distant landscape in the mind of your friend who is away on some mysterious business and is talking to you through this note, distorting the many frames of time, like a movie with badly timed subtitles. This note is a game with two players, every piece of written communication is. The sender and the recipient. One writes, the other reads. Both run the lines in their head again and again and use them as a mirror in which to see themselves through the eyes of the other player. Every time they read and every time they think, the lines change a little, the players change a little. The words coalesce and from a virus that keeps mutating, making the world restless. They play the game under the clock of separation and watch themselves until the last grain of sand holding them apart has given way and slipped, from the future through the present into the past. So wait my love, and be the good player that you are. I will be back by seven.