Yanyan Huang

June 23, 2016 San Gabriel, CA

Dear Niccolò,

The hill will descend from the Arno down that cyprus road’s allées of blindsiding bosquets. Inverse dendochronologies ring the isolotto: a cloth-like waifish waver and ripples more minute than worsted. You could tell by that quixotic, ruffle-y feeling, wringing a thermokinematics of halsine affections – say(,) those harpies harping on. This sluice of social generosity Giambologna kept close to heart.

Painting is a rain-dipped medium where the submerged umbrels of Florentia Village are a patronage out of context – an absence as enterprise. Just another thing of Mohs scale hardness 2.2 to pretend to thrum and click: gypsum and finials in the cleft of non-linear variance are a quicker kind of fabrefaction. Before the fact, you cherished the kexy way clay labascates beyond the distal grasping of a root-stained hand.

Only in a fey ecology would someone call these inset values: the “needle” form of mullite points from the ordinances of justice to a neckline’s more compliant venialia. The outreached suburb is inescapably hard to believe in but no less calculable: a liquid slurry turned into homes. Formula (repeating unit):Al2Si2O5(OH)4.Mohs scale hardness: 2–2.5. Optical properties: Biaxial (–). Specific gravity: 2.16–2.68. Imprecisely used, little livid clots of foam buoy up in Pesa’s waters.

Where the circulation of technique circles Arlecchino, a coin profile of mature wheat is a slipshod allegory, ragged yet sleek as Bézier curves, L-shaped anterooms, chipped coperta. Or you could believe you have a future skirting Silk Road 3.0; on the other side, of course, is a warm pool dedicated to sacramental consumptions. Generally speaking, the ophidian sweep of currency selection is something that exceeds the terms of any weightless DNS commitment.

And, what remains? A fountain of forked tongues whispers of nearby sycomancy. Elsewhere, you hear thunder; and, of New York, only a crushing noise, plain portent. Even the Yttrium of the blue hour remains an anecdote – a fern-green rumor fringed by tin. It called for abundances, without concrete duration, liberatory in themselves.

An ornament of moisture, the curtain is a cosmological minimum, you thought in an inner voice separate, at the time, from thinking. Pliny says every interior might still be a tool for amending space. Here, we might desire bitterly the present’s long deferral: hope to hold time with pomelos and cashmeran as pure and massy as the sleep of animals.

Yours, Alex