Iben,

I was walking down Sønder Boulevard last night with the field recorder on — old habit, the new ear-tabs catch better audio but I like holding something — and I caught a kid singing to his bike. Just to it. Like you'd hum to a baby. The bike was one of those leased frames that wheels itself home after curfew, and he was thanking it before he tapped it loose. "Tak for i dag." Patted the saddle.

I kept the recording. Forty seconds. I've been playing it back too much.

The flat is fine. The tattoo parlour downstairs closed in '38 — you remember Suri? She moved her studio out to Sydhavn, says the rent on the canal is half of what we paid here. The space below me is a repair café now. They fix earbuds and toasters and, on Thursdays, marriages. Joking. Sort of.

I'm working on a doc about Vesterbro before the cars left. It's mostly me asking old men what they miss and pretending I'm not crying behind the headphones. There's a man on Eskildsgade who can still imitate a diesel engine. He's eighty-one. He did it for me twice.

Come home sometime. The sound is different but it's still here.

n

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