Derek

Dear Valeria,

But the wind does not stop for my thoughts. It whips across the flooded gravel pits drumming up waves on their waters that glint hard and metallic in the night, over the shingle, rustling the dead gorse and skeletal bugloss, running in rivulets through the parched grass — while I sit here in the dark holding a candle that throws my divided shadow across the room and gathers my thoughts to the flame like moths.

Best wishes,

Derek Jarman