You referred to 'The Perfect Mango' a couple of times, but somehow I knew I didn’t want to enter that text yet until today. I just read the introduction and it brought tears to my eyes. It is everything we talked about, and all the reasons why we keep making and living, to make life without reducing it to a simple living being. ''There is a world to be invented; a world always being invented, and this is the world that keeps me alive today.'' I think that is why I cannot live without fabulation, it’s often the only thing that keeps me writing, I don’t mean actual words on paper, no, writing as living. Just before I left for Montréal I wrote my best friend and parents a letter. I didn’t know if I could even come to Canada, I was close to giving up on all my plans. I felt nothing, I didn’t know anything, I was collapsing constantly and on all levels. But I figured; if I have nothing else than wanting to die, I can just as well do it there. If death in Amsterdam is the only outcome, Montréal could be the fabulation of a world worth living. I wrote that I was sorry that every day they would find a daughter and a friend at their door that could only tell them she had to be with them just to make sure not to kill herself. I remember writing the letters so clearly, I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t read my own letters, most of the ink even vanished from the tears, it was so dramatic. What to say for the things you don’t want to put in words? What to say if all the words are one big bad cliché? I had to constantly be with somebody else, in company of another, because that was the only possibility not to feel my selfs floating out of my body until they floated so far away that even touching my skin, hearing my own voice coming out of my mouth, or looking into my eyes in the mirror would make me so anxious, to encounter something so unrecognizable, that I couldn’t feel, hear, see, smell, or taste anymore, making the best option was I knew that if at least they would recognize me as something like a body it must mean there still was a body. The proximity of the other bodies then allowed for me to latch onto another rhythm. Important when anxiety parsed everything into a single pace and rhythm. That, and the smell of cinnamon, cardamom, and Weyes Blood’s song 'Cardamom' were the only things that kept me from floating away entirely. ''We just met but I have to confess; I knew you, before too; Summer is here; I have nothing to fear; Fresh new train of flesh for me to look down.'' For five years I would dream at least every week that a visitor came into my bedroom while I was asleep. I couldn’t see his face, it was one dark blur, but he was always wearing a winter coat and was as big as the door opening. He would say something like “If you say no it won’t happen”, “If you just move away I won’t harm you”. But then I would paralyze, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t do anything. And as I was lying completely still in my bed, I would wake up, completely still in my bed, being unable to move or speak just like he wanted it. I would feel myself falling back into the one bedroom and back into the other bedroom, it kept flipping and folding, I kept being unable to move against the flip or the fold. Every week I already knew this nightly visitor would come, I kept on anticipating, mostly expecting him on days it already felt impossible to move in this strange world. I knew that feeling would repeat itself into the night, asking me to act, but keeping me in an unavoidable and infinite folding. The week before I left I had the dream for the last time eversince. Although it was very different, I dreamt I fought just outside the doorway.