And not to give it away but I'm going
to read you the last letter in this book.
Dear Diego, we finally have it out on the floor of the cosmos.
Exhausted by the swirl, unable to exhaust
without a sense of linear time, we
are coexistent in every iteration
of the multiverse splintering along with each syllable.
Learning how the sound haunts the space, how
the center haunts the frame, mischievous little moments keep
piling themselves into a certainty, where
I must confront the ways I have failed
to protect that which means most to me.
Our time together in these sentences, the way
you made me think, we shrink the space time between us.
I'm basically texting you.
Hoping you're up and in a space where you
can receive this transmission.
Trying to transmit the light of the moon,
the length of the highway, the heart of the lowlands,
the distance from me to you within the heart that
beats while absorbing these symbols
exists a set of multiplexing portals
hold fast to that present moment that divides
this reality from that reality.
And let yourself see what's really there.
Under it, the way the energies of everything
you've ever seen or been collect into the cenote of your life.
What portal will you become beyond your mortality?
What does it mean that you're my portal to everything, Diego?
Is this how you repent?
Patron saint of ancestral oppression.
Blessed blasphemous beast of 1,000 sins.
Burden of burdens.
Love of my life.
Whatever would I do without you, Diego?
I wouldn't exist.
I wouldn't be writing this.
And you know what?
You could keep it.
Would gladly trade you 2000 years
plus to sleep at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Would that none of you survive that first voyage back
to Spain, a kraken, a cursed triangle, a rogue pod
of mermaids, anything.
And yet you're here, ignoring my letters,
refusing to be anything but pain no matter how much you
tell me it's love.