I do not know if we will see each other when I'm in your town upon Monday (it's alright if we don't, I'm going to be in that town of yours a lot the next few months) You should know, though, that I'll be disappointed that on such a beautiful time of the year, the early part of June, my favourite time to spend in that city of yours, Montreal, I won't be sitting across from you at a table sipping on tea and laughing at how useless, it appears, any fears or misgivings were. Yes, there are, no doubt, things that are unsaid upon our lips that if we were to speak them, would cause a little bedlam, but one of the great things about art is that it affords you the opportunity to speak without actually opening your mouth, and that the things unsaid sometimes will not be spoken as a word, but more of a whisper, or something within choreography, or narrative monologue. Art lets us hide. It's like burying yourself in a warm blanket with someone, and the experience between performer and audience is an intimate one - 'it was like they were speaking to me, and me alone...' (But you'll know that it was the truth when the show starts, I think) I do know that if in the last month, specifically the last days of April, if I were to speak the words that came to me, I wouldn't have found this thread of narrative (nor the strength to dare to actually say it, cause it has to be said, and I've become quite good at the unspeakable)
I always carry around cigarettes in your town, in case a beautiful girl asks me for a smoke.