iben,

they cut the passage. the long one — the field recording from the bunker under enghave, the one i sat in for six hours with the lav mic and a thermos. nine minutes of breath and pipework. gone. producer says it doesn't 'serve the throughline.' the throughline is fine. the throughline is also a corporate documentary about people who used to make music in basements before basements got rezoned.

i'm not even angry. i made coffee, i paid june's rent, i went down to the tattoo parlour and chatted to henrik while he sterilised. that was my afternoon. the haze is sitting over halmtorvet again — they say the climate models lied gently this year, only twenty-eight days above thirty, lucky us.

the new draft renders in forty minutes now. the model does the room tone match without me. it used to take a night. i should be grateful. instead i sat on the fire escape and watched the delivery quads stack themselves on the roof opposite, very neatly, like they were proud.

i'll apply to your residency. not this week. soon.

N

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