In July you told me that you were ill. We never directly touched upon it again (apart from when you made morbid jokes). It, obviously, coloured our talks on work like a nebulous and devious undercurrent but I wasn’t capable of taking it in, so I embraced it all as a note on mortality, a nod on aftermaths, a comment on the concept of legacy. What else could one do? Last night I dreamt that I bumped into you outside some dank building in deep Brooklyn. ”I thought you were dead!?” I blurted out. ”Who told you so?” you said with your infectious smile. ”The world”. The world told me so!” You smiled even wider. ”Screw you world!” I bellowed, and we laughed; you bigger than me. Well, screw you world. Bilden tagen av @johanrenck

Bilden tagen av @johanrenck Bilden på Instagram: ift.tt/1mQUejD