It is the year 2024 (anno domini), or the year 1740 (of the era of martyrs), or the year 2777 (by the count of the Caesar), or the year 231 (since the people stormed the Bastille). It is March, or Paremhat, or Einmánuður—the Lone Month—the last month of Winter.

No matter: it is now. Now, booming, wherever and whenever you read this. In Now’s wake, we will not be remembered as we are, but by what remains when our calendar’s days are forced into another’s. We’re sorry. You – who lived by the count of the martyrs, or the caesar, or the Bastille, or the seasons – I cannot keep my fingers tight enough to hold you. If weather speaks, it speaks in a language of forgetting. If forgetting speaks, it speaks in all our voices, together.

We will travel together, into what Now that we create. We will look upon each other, holding the past’s rags between us like a scrap of lace, visible and not entirely Here. Time, like weaving, is made as much by its openings as by its threads. We bring with us a string of hope, a string of fear, and a string of becoming.  

We are a pair of friends that love words, and knowing things, and not knowing things, and feeling. It has been a long while since we last made something together, and we are excited to play, like spiders, like growing willows—delicately, methodically, with the chill of anticipation.