I recently rewatched a film Chantal Akerman made while living in New York. In it, we hear the letters her mother sent her from Europe while we see these long, static shots of the city. I thought about how I never really told you things. I’d say: this or that happened, but never: I’m sad, I miss home, I don’t know where I’m going, I’m happy, I’m in love, I love you. I thought about how often you asked me to stay in touch.
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