A letter should arrive the way a memory does: soft at first, and then unmistakable.
These notes are small gifts of time: a date to keep in Dubai or Paris, a quiet window in London, a night that waits for you in New York or Singapore. Sometimes a page from my bedside book, a song for the road, a place where the light falls just right.

I write when there is something worth holding; availability, touring dates, and invitations for longer hours together. Rarely, and only to those who prefer whispers to noise.

If you would like to receive them, leave your city and an email address for the post.
When the next envelope opens, it will carry the faintest trace of jasmine, and a promise to meet where the city is kind to us.