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USERNAME: unsafety netzach library of ruina TEXT • AUDIO • VIDEO • ACTION • OVERFLOW

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delivery. backdated to whichever day was the winter solstice in this city!

[fussiest]

[ at netzach's door sits a handwoven basket holding four paper-wrapped gifts blooming profusely from their seams with long-stemmed paper flowers in dizzying greens and reds and oranges splayed along the painted watercolours of a rising, winter-morning dawn pale with still-visible pinpricks of mourning stars.

in the large, square flat package is a furisode dyed the colours of snow melting against the gentle reach of a tenable spring. hand-painted with steady heads across the sleeves is the rising, winged flight of a pale, red-crowned crane over a traditional shochikubai, long-stalked kikyo and stretching sprigs of ume shifting in the wake of its joyous grace. there are those that would argue its sky bluish-green, and those that would argue it greenish-blue, but all would agree that the obi that carefully pulls together the fragmented ends of two, unending threads is the bloom of sharp pink flowers along golden seams. slipped into a fold is a card in kaveh's sweeping, printing-press precise handwriting detailing how to maintain and keep clean the garment, and not to machine-wash it under any circumstances lest the paint washes off.

in the small, rectangular package is a pair of wooden geta painstakingly carved and adorned with five-petaled cloth flowers in alternating pink and gold.

in the smallest package of the four is a wooden hairstick laden with long, wisteria flowers, the slow fade of purple and pink stem from a single, hanging bud of green.

in the last, hardcover package comes this: first, the scent of old paper and gentle, washed watercolour. then comes the texture of a gap in a tale, paper fading into a kaleidoscope of shapes and seams and intention-made-form. the tunnel book begins with a tree. of course it does, because it's through the love of that giving tree that the cut-out of the young boy grows from child to man. kaveh details the story with love, each frame of the tale narrated from long, slanting precision of his printing-press handwriting, each word like a blessing. it ends like this: the tree, who has given away all of itself, is happy.

the note goes like this: ]

To my dearest Netzach;

When I came across this tale in the bookstore, my first thought was to wonder what it is you would see with your eyes: would you, too, think that the tree is happy? Or would you have taken the young child by the hands and shaken your head, and taught the child to only receive from the tree what it would be willing to give back? Could you accept the tree being happy? Should the child?

I've always believed that ought to be beautiful; I've always believed that art ought to provoke thought. As I was carving out the space in paper for this tale, I wondered if you would take it back with you to your City, if there is a place in your world for the happiness of a single tree, no matter what shape it takes on.

Netzach, meeting you has been a miracle.

May your coming year be as sweet as watermelon, and as fruitful as pomegranates.

With love,

Kaveh