Cherry brandy yellow warmth under a dark blue sky. Fire, ardour, the fusion of skin; they are the three ends of a trapeze. The fourth end is uncertain and intangible. You can stretch and tease and make it yours. It is a trapeze act; unpredictable, bizarre and oddly entertaining.

I write these letters to you from a swinging trapeze. We are but one here; you have to hook your leg into mine to save your life. Bruises are a habit and letting go is a routine. We gain momentum by swaying uncertainty around like a pendulum in a child's hand. Time is a monarch and we are but peasant puppets. Art in mid-air becomes an installation, a living.

So we go on everyday; a trapeze act over a field of discovery. You swing and I catch you; you impregnate the field as you pass by; pollens of thought involuntarily dropped onto fertile flowers to ensure that life everywhere continues undisrupted. You plant life into my wooden arms and coax me to see a net where there is none. Your illusions have a solidity to them that is simply transitional. And in this state of transition, we pass decades.

Jump and fall, the flying trapeze is safer than you think. The danger rests in a slip of mind and you already possess mine. You complete the fourth end and the trapeze is nothing more than a mere instrument. Play it at your will and break the ends, the fire will not stop till it has consumed everything in its way.

Fire, ardour, the fusion of skin and you.