Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there’s just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha’s playing your melody. Buddha’s sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I’ll post them somewhere else.

Through the chat rain and the weather reports, I can sense the glow of long evenings. Send them to me, too. Preferably on a floppy disk, in Buddha format. Compatible as two bombs. Bam! The machines that hum and create their own sunshine, a kind of quicksand sound I’d happily throw myself into, hoping that you’ll come along. Teen movies starring Buddha. Family sagas in several parts. No more sad bildungsroman. Happy Buddha.

The phone’s earworm keeps drilling its designs. There’s no need to send them on, just yet. Buddha can wait. I’ve stored batteries inside my special air-raid shelter, from within which all I can hear is the sun. How Buddha revolves on a marble-white mandala. An obscure graph that documents our melodic rise and fall. I’ve already sent you that. Check your messages. It’ll come in the mail. Buddha relaxes. Buddha on rollerskates.