This collection, written entirely in the form of electronic messages during the period of March-June 2013, emerged from a long discussion after which, that same evening, I decided to send my interlocutor an email with a poem, a reflection of our conversation, titled "Towards this irrational direction." He replied almost immediately with "The direction is here. We had nothing but to continue.
The fourteen poems that constitute this book are, therefore, written entirely in the form of electronic messages. They are, in other words, a correspondence of multiple, complementary, and conflicting directions, written in the heat of the moment. Hence, at the end of each "letter," we deemed it appropriate to include the date and time of their sending.
The text titled "Injectable Poetry," which was written to serve as the epilogue of the book, we decided to include in the main body of the poetic exchanges since it was written just a few days before the completion of the last two "letters," thus within the fervor of mutual responses. This inclusion is made to emphasize the contemporaneous dimension of the exchange, but also to highlight the spontaneous, unpredictable, and unplanned nature of the entire endeavor.

[WRITING SAMPLE]

And yet

an irrational moment
surrendered to its reach
and left to reach its destination
has no other direction
than the heart of time
that is lost when it is not struck
swiftly with daring decisiveness
seeking to transform
rigidity into the bend of inertia
and silence into persuasive speech
Thus the crowd is silenced
zero is intersected
the eternal is touched
and the original returns
Then everything calms down
not from satiation and emptiness
but from fulfillment
of that minimum which is
the arrival of fullness
and for a moment it sparks
that which is momentary
while it should
if we were truly alive
endure
as long as the Universe [...]
D.D.

------------


In the morning the poem was missing from its place
Which means that your gaze
ceased to exist
Possibly it was displaced
Into cryptic screen messages
Into some insinuation or cradle of Poetry
Certainly in vain

Something has rotted
In this era of hope
Which one did we choose and which one belongs to us?

You're right!
It reveals and presents itself
Familiar as the crime
Alien as your art
With your back turned to the ruins
Of the world
Like a nightmarish night
Where God and His creation
Bleed together in the end

And yet you live
And the poem
Begins again within you
Testing the distance
In the idea of an attempt
To embrace the unfamiliar
The extreme difficulty
Of your condition
Is the poem
Nothing speaks more vividly
In the world
Than this promising
Language
Which is the language of absolute sorrow [...]
G.A.