I'm sitting around at home, in the train caboose I live in, drinking Coke and eating Indian food.
Scratch that. Indian food makes it sound fancy. I'm actually eating fried cheese. But it came from an Indian restaurant. So I think it still counts.
In the wee closet in the hall, I have many, many boxes that are filled with packaged things to send you: tiny wooden keys. Bottles with blank messages inside. Balloons. Stickers. Secret things you won't know about until they arrive at your front door.
And the last thing: love letters.
I have decided that this week, at breakneck speed, I am going to finish writing the sixty or so love letters that makes the even number of one hundred. They will be made of up pieces of the letters you've sent in, and bits of things found in newspapers, and stories that friends have told me, and small fictions, and things that are true.
Then I shall handwrite one of these love letters many, many times, stick all of these things in envelopes, and send them to you.
This is very exciting.
I think LAMP has many more pieces than I'd ever suspected it would, and I've spent much more out of pocket than I probably expected to, but I hope that soon, this relative silence will pay off in something very worth the wait.
I will send another update in a moment with more info, but in the meantime, here is a an audio bit, in which I read letter number seven.