Dear Misha,

I read your letters and I realize I've never heard you, the sound of your voice. I don't want to hear it flattened, compressed into a recording, or stretched thin over the wires.

Maybe this is sudden--too sudden, this need to meet you, to be with you. Why now, after so many years?

I walk along the docks before the sun comes up, listen to the birds and the slosh and the clanks. I listen to the old men tell stories over beer and Aqvavit. I listen to the wind sweeping through the streets. I've hung a wind chime up at the house. I hope you'll like it.

South Bend sounds bright--maybe in the winter? That's too long, too far away. Or right away. Yes, it sounds crazy. But I just finished another project, and I've been saving. I'll talk to Holloran about flights.

We will meet.