It is with tremendous, soul crushing sadness, and terrible heart-wrenching sorrow that I write you. I haven't felt this much doom and gloom since The Deep-Playa Portapottie Famine of 2013. I regret to inform you that I won't be attending this year's burn. I won't get to see all of your glittering gold faces on that dusty dried out lakebed - it's just not in the cards for me. A fractured spine doesn't make for a fun time. I'd considered coming and anchoring myself at the camp, eschewing bike riding and the delights of dance, limiting myself only to the occasional canned beer while respecting a strictly enforced 10pm curfew, but that's no way to burn. I wouldn't disgrace myself or any of you with such a display; it would be a blight on Hiburnia; a disco ball that doesn't shine.
But don't weep, don't cry for me Argentina, I will survive - I'll be there with you in spirit.
You may see me in a crowd late one night as you lose yourself in dance or, perhaps darting past on a stray photon ricocheted off the forehead of the man, or maybe you might feel me as a cool breeze against your shoulder during some somber second at the temple. You may wake up in the back of a sweaty Winnebago screaming my name, or hear the hop of my rabbit's feet on a thin tin roof in the gold of twilight.
Run rampant, flicker, burn pop and hiss, make mayhem and chase the magic.
Above all, make memories; they are all we ever have.
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